Ten minutes ago I tied one end of a piece of rainbow colored yarn to a key and the other end to a wire in my truck. If I'd done this sooner, My step-father wouldn't owe the towing company $150.00. Honestly, if I'd known he was paying for the guy to get my keys out I'd have found another way. I assumed he just had the right friends. What is about to follow has nothing to do with that...
I'm always trying to find something to hate you for.
Doubting.
Fatherless.
We are guilty of bigotry,
We rape your name with our tongues because it brings us solace, father.
But as all naїveté lets us do,
We are forgiven when we cry out,
Please help us.
As if your ear would bring us any comfort.
As if this world could ever yield such fruits.
Only it's cancerous routines.
Day in and day out.
Forever contemplating where I would stand if you hadn't left me with such a heavy heart.
For my Mother
For my Brother
And today wouldn't be the last.
Nor tomorrow nor any day after
that I should breath or speak or touch or see.
Or laugh or cry or think or love.
That you shouldn't impede such restful nights, father.
That without you I should live any life beyond those thirteen years.
That without you I should live any life beyond these thirty-eight years.
I wrote that about thirty minutes ago. I always think of Sylvia Plath when I write something this close. It's obvious that her less delicate style has some influence on me. I hate that I love her so much. Some writers don't believe this sort of writing should be publicized. Instead, they make it cryptic. They play it close to home but write in a way that the casual reader would never suspect a tragedy. I would like to cite the work of Elizabeth Bishop, particularly her work In the Waiting Room. I say,
Why not both?
In a poem, I feel the words are what move a reader. Whether it moves them to anger or tears and whether blunt or tactful, I think the reader will get what the need from the work.
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