Philippe Shils

alone with my daughter in the house

when there are leaves
shimmering

she ignores me
preoccupied.

at the window
in the bedroom

the closest she'll get
to a tree house

i have to get in her face
to get a smile.

the winter snow
is something to look
forward to.

we'll be buried
in the neutral light.

hey hey pretty baby

woody guthrie's daughter cathy died in a fire
after he wrote her sweet simple songs
and sang them with a plaintive and pleading tone
"who's my pretty baby (hey hey pretty baby)"

lucia stops at the top of a step or a curb
and as she clutches vaguely for some help
I know that we together lost the mandate of heaven
woody and lucia and cathy and me

a dust bowl and the ceiling fan rhythm
of the locusts that persist all evening

the weather roils on

boiling heat or mean cold

I smell tangerines and taste watermelons

the chill on my tongue
the tang in my nose
and the bitter pleasure of beer

and the rocking of a child
rapid and accelerating
steady and monotonous
and without comfort
frantic and clicking and clacking

Philippe Shils is a physician assistant in Decatur, Illinois. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Alba, BODY, Elimae, Hyperlexia Journal, Rattle, Sixth Finch, and elsewhere. contact