August 15, 2023

Empty Pockets

By Simon Anton Niño Diego Baena
Photo by John Capistrano on Pexels.com

My wife informed me that my son had a fever. She was agitated and upset. She stayed in bed beside our child all night with her prayer books and rosary. I never believed in such a fantasy. It is like a house with no roof, a well with no water. No messenger of God ever came down from heaven to stop my father from dying right in front of me—she seemed to think I had been indifferent since the very beginning of our marriage. Perhaps she’s right. I just stood by the window, staring at nothing, with my hands in my empty pockets.

About the Author

Simon Anton Niño Diego BaenaSimon Anton Niño Diego Baena lives in the Philippines with his wife and son. He is the author of three chapbooks, most recently Ritual and Other Poems from Blue Horse Press. His work is forthcoming in Pembroke Magazine, South Dakota Review, Taos Journal of Poetry, The Summerset Review, Osiris, Louisiana Literature, and elsewhere.

Related Flash
glass container filled with ice

Eulogy in Pigtown

By Craig Kirchner

“Sober Monday mornings we discussed Kafka, Sartre, and you. Champagne on ice in case you visited, knowing you wouldn’t. In between sets you read poems.”

person holding brown film

Pandemic Feature: Casting Call

By Peter Kline

“We’re going to need a younger child. These teenagers are obviously compromised by moneysex and existential dread.”

Sunlight streaming in through a window onto wooden floors

Sundog at My Window on a Midwestern Winter’s Afternoon

By Jay Summer

Glistening white sunlight bounds through my window, bouncing across the wooden floor like a pristine and puffed up Bichon Frise parading across the room with such pomp, you’re tempted to believe they understand the concept of “best in show.”

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This