my father is lord

He was sleeping besides a blonde secretary
on a plane to Buchenwald
when our daughter came
and went – seven months early.

My sister told me he couldn’t change
his ticket, after treating the the receiver
as if it was diseased:
“Gerard, the camp will be there
next month. Come home now.”

He returned
two weeks later with a PhD
thesis on how the chambers were
actually de-lousing centers,
and deep red roses for me.
I smiled wanly, tried not
to think of the blood.

My ring finger stayed empty,
as my belly now was,
soon the closet followed suit.

I never told him what I named her,
nor that her birthday was exactly twelve
years after my Bat Mitzvah.
And if he comes back, I will
stay silent, still.

Because my toothbrush rattles
in its cup, with nothing
to stay it against the space;
the cereal always goes stale
before I can finish the box.


One thought on “

  1. This is spectacular poetry, melancholic and intense. I feel for the character, whoever it may be. Keep up on the good work, and may you have a good week ahead.


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