Poetry by John Pring

I try to paint the torturer
but can only see myself.
Try to write about my father,
same problem. I once
followed a fox to the field’s
tall grass. We paused.
We held the weight
of sunlight and he nodded.
I think of my mother
and she calls me, says
every fire is my childhood
home. I’ve been apologising
to strangers. Begging the bagman
for forgiveness. How cruel I am
to sleep, how childish
to equate a life
with living.

John Pring is a poet and author from the United Kingdom, where he is an MFA candidate at Manchester Metropolitan University. He has poems published or upcoming in Epiphany, The Comstock Review, Poetics, SoFloPoJo, B O D Y, The Passionfruit Review, Panorama, Months To Years, The Gramercy Review, and others.

Photo by Kent Pilcher on Unsplash