by Sam Rasnake
So many words to say now he'll never say though
he feels their weight in silence, though he needs
their meanings, he knows he won't find them,
still they bite at his tongue — what he once questioned
he knows for fact, what he once believed, he's long since
forgotten or dreamed away — if you whisper your truths,
they'll disappear, he'd say, so he never whispers them —
and when he does speak, his voice is the wild thud
of trees falling oceans from here in cool shimmers
of rain, in the hot curl of asphalt, in all the time needed
though there's so little now to do, and he's prayed deep
into the hole of his aching, but that's not how it ends —
in a hush, in the beetle's scratching at the baseboard,
a bullfrog's croaking from the dark rocks in his pond,
his cane leaning against the opened window
— originally published in fwriction : review
All rights reserved.
A poem for my Father. A piece that's as important to me as anything I've written - or could most likely ever write. In fact, I'd be ok if I were never able to write another piece - simply because this one came from my hand.
I promised to post 12 pieces to FN this year, but you might have to call me a liar on that part - as Goober Pyle would say. Most likely my last one this year.
Thanks to Laura Brown & Danny Goodman for accepting the work for fwriction : review - July 2012.