May 27th, 2021.

my father

as i stare at my father's face
i confront the years that have passed
his blue eyes have stayed the same
his pony tail still remains

i'd like to think there's maybe a snow globe
somewhere on a shelf
of figures of him and my mother dancing
but when you shake it, ash falls

when you stand for a moment in the hallway,
close your eyes and let silence suffocate you,
you can hear them yelling at one another
you can hear the war resume

you can't shake that sort of energy
you can't cleanse it with white sage or cedar
but i find the best way to calm the past is with noise
so i'll stomp on the hardwood and sing till the anger simmers

like most older mountain men,
he talks only of weather, death, and his youth
i admit sometimes it is hard to digest but i listen
which is a luxury he can't provide me

he knows that i write
he never asks to see any of it
i try to tell my own stories but he interrupts me,
asking for money or to remind him of things

it is a complicated relationship
to say the least
but when i read through my poetry
i see some of him in me

mostly because i apparently
mostly think of weather, death, and my youth, too

Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 294 times
Written on 2021-06-08 at 02:42

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This is amazing. I love the little details and imagery you've sprinkled throughout the poem. It feels so real. I love it.

A very moving portrait.


by aidan haskel