I of Him/ JeanNever was I told he was my father,
This walking tree man, hands that held the world inside his witty view, eyes that talked,yet darkly lit.
But who else could he be? I of him.
My blueprint, safe locked until the end of always.
Our laughter and secret nods infuriated all -
Their annoyance mere fuel.
I see his hands try now to grasp the threads of questions, or lyrics or punch lines.
Our secret nods, now metronomes for something we can
no longer outrun.
His eyes focused on some dreamy destination
Where men in linen suits abide the savage heat with gin
Shock, is when Jean is on her knees,
Picking up ants, she says,
In her comfy, elasticated waistband joggers,
Telling some invisible critic to leave her alone.
I think of offering pity, then curse myself,
Of reasoning, which is a barren idea,
Then the idea of placating.
Instead, I choose to be honest.
I give sadness, silently.
I lodge it inside, at the very back of my dry throat,
A lot reserved for fury, sibling rivalry, shame,
But the spot is taken by
No revelation there.
I'm not frightened by Jean,
But of becoming her
Poetry by 1LFD
Read 55 times
Written on 2021-09-02 at 01:24
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