By Carla Sarett
Junius Brutus Booth, father of John Wilkes Booth
(1796-1852)
He once crowed like a rooster instead of speaking
to Ophelia. He almost strangled
Desdemona.
But there were nights of fire—
there were many nights.
And in a week of torrential rains he left his sons and wandered
out West — uselessly—chasing debt.
He died on a steamboat
gambling his way back East.
Mad, people said.
Mad Old Junius Booth.
Maybe he did go mad that final weekend,
a woman read his palm and saw
a wild son on a distant stage.
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Carla Sarett writes poetry, fiction and, occasionally, essays; and has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best American Essays, and Best of Net. She has published one full-length collection,She Has Visions (Main Street Rag, 2022) and two chapbooks, including My Family Was Like a Russian Novel (Plan B, 2023.) Recent poems appear in Potomac Review, Stonecoast Review, Harpy Hybrid, San Pedro River Review and Rust and Moth. Carla has a PhD from University of Pennsylvania and is based in San Francisco.
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