Alfred

For the past few years I have mourned my father. Last week he died. It is time now to move on to another subject. He was the constant in my work, always, in this or that form. I have written lines upon lines, prose upon prose about him. I knew too, in the days of his life, that poetry makes nothing happen. I thought if I wrote so much, if I understood so much why our life turned out so, reconciliation would be easier. On Thursday I stood before his grave, clear-faced in the presence of this logically-understood thing.

In one of my poems from last year mourning him, I had written: “No use beating the walls. Loss has divined this.” In another poem, Mercy: “Shut sternum is forgiven need.” In another: “I am Lady Lazarus. Risen through the mortuary.” I had grieved many times, experienced the loss even more times, that now, when it is finally here, I am thinking maybe I should have written less poems, understood things less.

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I have too many Daddy poems than I know what to do with.

Daddy

Suddenly we stand orbiting a plate, loss

permitted in this street’s witty corner.

He was all my North, the fool.

Where he walked, my toe was gouty,

burrowing fine sand. I see you, sweet disability,

in your shadow

a play I performed up to a mildewed January

by the grave, where my will begins to do its thing.

I mean, there’s stuff here to be forgiven of,

not merely accidents. I mean, we go into a ward

for different reasons. Like how you blow with cancer

and call me crying into the phone.