I’ve posted this poem before, and it doesn’t really go with the picture above, but Father’s Day is almost over, and I would really like to commemorate both it (and my wonderful father), so here goes:
My Father (baby birds)
My father’s voice
when he sang
was deep and cragged and
reminded me of a froggie
gone a’courting.
But this was baby birds.
It was not even a person
who had died.
It was not even a particularly noble dog,
though like all of its species, it was capable
of a self-debasing attachment that could
seem Arthurian.
But after the accident, the rush,
the sad blur home,
my father’s back faced me in my room
with a sound
of birds.
It silenced all gone wrong,
turned me back into a person
who could do things in the world.
(All rights reserved.)
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