Winter 1981 • Vol. III No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1981 |

Trillium

Maybe I shouldn't tell you this—you are his daughter just as you are mine—I think your father's having an affair. Last spring he started hiking in the woods, just as he used to do when you were born; he said he needed time to be alone. But then I noticed he began to mention subtle things about the flowers—details. "Everything about the Trillium comes in threes," he said, "petals, sepals, stigmas; the ovate leaves, the three of them, whorl right below the triple shining crimson flowers." He'd follow me around the house, describing what he'd seen, and get annoyed with me if I did not respond enough. Last week I couldn't help myself; I blurted out: "What do you want to say to me?" I seeyou're skeptical, and yet you know your father well enough to sense when he is holding something back. Why should the fact a flower has suggestive names—like Wake Robin, Stinking Benjamin, Wet-Dog Trillium—be so significant to him, unless there's a confession in those names, hiding even from hi

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By Robert Pack

Maybe I shouldn't tell you this—you are his daughter just as you are mine—I think your father's having an affair. Last spring he started hiking in the woods, just as […]

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