The Year My Father Died
A poem for Wednesday
(for Jan)
The mind is a prison, portcullis-
hidden, surrounded by a moat. Rituals
inside designed for correction.
The dangerous belong in the dungeon. The year
my father died, I went to the mind.
The year after, I went about my business.
My marriage existed. We painted
the house, raised the child inside it, changed
the path of the rose trellis
to avoid the lemon tree. Survived.
For the rest of my life, I travelled
across the earth. I brought to the mountain
what belonged to the mountain.
I threw in the sea
nearly everything else.
In a train station, my father waits
on the bench the porter shined in the wee hours
of whatever day this is.
It can’t be
You are not meant to come with me
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