Body Language

    by Larina Warnock

We knew by the quiver of his lips

over a spoonful of oatmeal, like window shutters

gathering leaves in an autumn storm.

We knew by the scent of his cologne

approaching us when we came home from school, greeting

us too early for his work to be done.

We knew by the tremor in his voice

reporting pride in every endeavor as though we’d never

succeeded at anything before.

Nobody told us that Daddy was dying.

We knew by Mama’s closed eyes disjointed from her smile,

a gesture of deceit too kind to misconstrue.

© 2010 Larina Warnock

Larina Warnock writes poetry & prose from Corvallis, Oregon where she lives with her husband and four children.  Her work, which often details the healing journey of her family, has appeared as a top ten winner in Writer's Digest's poetry competition, Wheelhouse Magazine, The Oregonian, Space & Time Magazine, and many others.  Her chapbook, Guitar Without Strings, is scheduled for publication by The Lives You Touch Publications in 2010.  She serves as the site administrator for the poets.org discussion forum, editor of The Externalist, and chair of Writers on the River.

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