On a day cold enough to remind him of home,
my father, whisky-warm, dragged from the shed

the kerosene heater, sending the mangy dogs
to the fence line. The overfilled tank, the choke

of kerosene soaking ragged into the wood floor,
he coaxed the heater to hot blush

with a single match and finally slumped to sleep
next to the trailing hair of its heat, its burning chest,
its hot mouth gagged with rags.

Listen to Jennifer Whitaker’s reading of “Something He Did” below…

Now, listen to Jennifer Whitaker’s discussion of “Something He Did”…

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