My Father, Deconstructed

A teacher once told me that she could see auras.
That each body pulses, its faint glow only visible
to some. I believed her, but could not conjure them, 
even when squinting. Only body and light: paper cut-outs.

My mom rang to tell me. I brushed off 
the tone; her dealings trended serious. 
Always heart-lurch. This time, real. Dad
in the woodshop. Just tell me how much of him

is gone. An intrusion of circular saws, jigsaws, routers. I grasped 
at her words. This time, only the tip of his finger. Lucky. 
After, I would picture him floating, his outline bright, 
but pierced. A constellation ruptured. As if finally 

succumbing to entropy: flesh to cell, cell to molecule, 
molecule to atom, atom to dirt. Dirt inevitably to stars.

---

Sonja Sharp’s poetry has appeared in Water~Stone Review, Great River Review, and elsewhere. She has taught in the public schools, studied on a Fulbright scholarship in India, and was a 2022-23 Loft Literary Center Mentor Series fellow. She lives in Minneapolis with her family, where she works as a nurse practitioner.