May Poem (for realsies this time)

Big thanks to Mel for this assignment.  I can’t believe I’ve got a (roughly) finished product in a week.  If you haven’t checked out the MFA Sunday School, I highly recommend it!  And go to the comments section of this week’s assignment to see the other great sestinas people have written.

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State Fair

The year Mom died, Dad took us to the fair.
It was August, and the late summer sun
scorched my neck and shoulders, too
exposed in a strappy tank.  I spent the rest
of our trip aware of the radiating heat, hoping
pink would soon fade to a golden tan, a song

for Midwestern summers I could sing
when I returned west, a sign of how I’d fared
during my weeks at home.  My hope
had been to get my dad out in the sun.
After a good house-scrubbing, he deserved a rest,
though we’d cleaned less than I wanted to.

He made it hard, every dusty trinket too
meaningful to throw away. The mopping, rinsing
dishes, vacuuming, all the things my mom had done, now rested
with him.  Added to his 60-hour week, it seemed unfair,
but he didn’t have a choice, and any reason
my sister or I could give, in the hope

he would accept some help, well, that hope
was punctured with excuses: working nights, sleeping until two
or three in the afternoon.  He rarely saw the sun;
when would someone come who wouldn’t wake him, sing
while cleaning, or move the furniture?  The whole affair
would bring him too much grief.  He needed rest.

We couldn’t have his heart arrest
like Mom’s did.  My sister and I were left to hope
he’d find a way to take care of himself and fare
better than we expected him to
without her.  We’d lived out of earshot of her song
for years, the closest of her sons

and daughters an hour’s drive away.  But the sun
of her life had set, and she could rest
in the heaven of her choosing.  We wouldn’t hear her sing
in church, the vibrato of her high notes lending hope
to those who knew pain and sickness, too.
Dad took us to the fair,

maybe to forget his solitude, or in hope
of remembering sunnier days, releasing
prayers, unsung, like all the rest.

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P.S.  I know I promised an engagement story.  This is clearly not it.  It’s coming.

Updated 5-20-12
You guys were sweet not to notice, or at least not to comment on it, but I totally messed up the end of my sestina.  Somehow, I forgot about “fair” and had some version of “sing” twice.  I fixed it, but I’m not sure I like it as much as the original.  Let me know what you think.

State Fair

The year Mom died, Dad took us to the fair.
It was August, and the late summer sun
scorched my neck and shoulders, too
exposed in a strappy tank.  I spent the rest
of our trip aware of the radiating heat, hoping
pink would soon fade to a golden tan, a song

for Midwestern summers I could sing
when I returned west, a sign of how I’d fared
during my weeks at home.  My hope
had been to get my dad out in the sun.
After a good house-scrubbing, he deserved a rest,
though we’d cleaned less than I wanted to.

He made it hard, every dusty trinket too
meaningful to throw away. The mopping, rinsing
dishes, vacuuming, all the things my mom had done, now rested
with him.  Added to his 60-hour week, it seemed unfair,
but he didn’t have a choice, and any reason
my sister or I could give, in the hope

he would accept some help, well, that hope
was punctured with excuses: working nights, sleeping until two
or three in the afternoon.  He rarely saw the sun;
when would someone come who wouldn’t wake him, sing
while cleaning, or move the furniture?  The whole affair
would bring him too much grief.  He needed rest.

We couldn’t have his heart arrest
like Mom’s did.  My sister and I were left to hope
he’d find a way to take care of himself and fare
better than we expected him to
without her.  We’d lived out of earshot of her song
for years, the closest of her sons

and daughters an hour’s drive away.  But the sun
of her life had set, and she could rest
in the heaven of her choosing.  We wouldn’t hear her sing
in church, the vibrato of her high notes lending hope
to those who knew pain and sickness, too.
Dad took us to the fair,

maybe to forget his solitude, or in hope
of remembering sunnier days, whispering fare-
wells and prayers, unsung, like all the rest.