Daniel Lurie

Letter I Wish My Father Wrote from Eastern Montana

I thought I’d write to you when I got back from the underpass.
Smoked a few cigarettes, flicked them at the trains. When I returned
to the house, your mom had fallen. I found her in that damn egg-yolk
kitchen. Half-mixed, curdled milk and flour on the counter. The nurse
made a house call, said she only needed a few stitches. When our conversation
dropped a few weeks ago, I wondered if your mountains cut the signal?
I’ve got the ‘77 up on blocks, but I can’t bring myself to work on it.
The plow’s still leaking fluid. Sparkplugs in the tin where you left them.
I know you think you hate country, but I smile thinking about you
mouthin’ Johnny Cash, last time you were here. Everything is muddy
right now, sour leaves and sweet rot. The neighbors finally cut down
the shattered cottonwood from that storm last year. I still shovel
dogshit out of the yard. Looks like the levy is going to pass,
so we’ll pay for something we’ll never see.

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Daniel Lurie is a Jewish, rural writer, from eastern Montana. He holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Idaho. Daniel is co-editor of Outskirts Literary Journal and a Poetry reader for Chestnut Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Pleiades, North American Review, Sonora Review and others. He was recently awarded a 2025-2026 Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing Fellowship from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Find him at danielluriepoetry.com.