The story of this poem: It’s the second anniversary of my father’s death, and I took a few days off work to reflect. It seems like it's been a lot longer than two years; I certainly feel like I’ve aged more than that in my heart, anyway. When folks tell me I look young and that I have years ahead of me, part of me wonders who they’re talking to.
IF YOU COULD STILL BREATHE I can’t believe you fuckin’ died on me. The absolute, hair-raising nerve. I gave no permission, I gave no leave, And yet: That’s the deal. Here I find myself, Wandering through the scrapyard, Searching for the lost parts I can take. I’ll accept something rusted, Mangled is just fine, If it’s you. This junkyard Is not like the ones You showed me when I was young: No smiling helpers to be found here, Just some posted instructions. There is a problem: The sign’s gone. What rainstorm, What hands in work gloves, What frustrated crowd of teens, What sudden, alarming tornado Do I have to blame for the Lack of direction I find here? I won’t spin Tales of where you went: There’s no one to tell them to. I bore no children from my body, Never took anyone’s ring, And to be honest, Who even knows? You could be Hidden anywhere, So I just focus on this: When I look down at my hairy legs, (Like I grow my own knee socks) I can still see you. There you are. And sometimes, There comes a moment When your voice calls from my mouth, Calming stormy waters with such ease, Knitting up the torn tissue, Gosh, I might as well Be a witch. It’s a bitch, Knowing it’s just me If I want to stay healthy. You were the only one I trusted. Mom was so damn mean to you, But you were so kind. Why not leave? “Pack your bags,” I wish you had said, “Mommy’s not doing well, and She needs space to get right in the head. I won’t let her yell at you. Kids deserve ice cream, Not bruises.” She hit me, And I hated her. You stood aside, abided, And as I child I loved you for the Peacefulness of your hands, but You should have raised them In defense. So tell me: If you could still breathe, What would you say to all this? Am I crazy, or were things a mess? I know you did what you could, I just wish you had Self esteem. I just wish you hadn’t died on me.
Read the memorial ghazal I wrote last year for my father:
Thank you so much for reading my work.
See you next week.
