Father.
I never write about you.
The world has shrunk small as your hands
now, and you and I,
we are both unemployed of our scenes.
Your poor eyes have gone.
Your thin hair circles your head by its own concerns.
You don't care
the neighbors say you've been clefted by years
and how heavy you've grown!
And I'm happy
as bones re-discovered.
My eyes and hair have not abandoned me.
My neighbors say how special
and valuable I am, say it like a small bundle
of stars, and are content to observe.
The indifferent world goes oddly still.
It's part of my process
of thinking of you, how you watched
in astonishment
this breeding of another woman.
I was born of you.
Yes! I came sweet from your own hands,
empty now as noiseless rooms, clutched
against the day we spoke
last.
Do you know
I have launched you
to another galaxy? That my poems
are hardly full of you at all?
Author notes
Written for AJ Morelli's image contest, which I was regrettably too slow to enter. I'm happy, however, to have written it regardless.
http://allpoetry.com/contest/2365120
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Comments
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What a shame, you seem to be gone...
This was heartbreaking, yet full of hope -
I can feel the terrible pain and heartbreak in this one, dear belly. You know I am waiting to hear back from you on a bio and permissions to publish your work in my anthology ~ I had wanted to get it out in time for Christmas but I will wait for you and hope you come back.
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