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by john schellhase

My father hurled

me up, released

me like a whim—

an acrobat in crazed suspense

I soared. The sun

my halo, blazed

around my hair. I was just one or maybe two.

Again, again

again, again again, he threw me up—wild fun—

into the air—

adored, amazed. If I have done

nothing else since,

that, at least that I gave to him.

And that, at least

he gave the world.


John Schellhase is an American writer, based in Segovia, Spain, where he lives with his wife and their three children.


Image by Bree Anne
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