My father died when I was seven.
Like a girl in a museum
I'm drawn to his pictures.
Those inadequate reproductions,
hypnotize me.
Pictures, what do they have to give?
Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look.
They exist, for me, like Cassandra of troy,
full of endless secrets that can never be told.
A snowy, ice slickened, twilight-blue
rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars
rushing, rushing... somewhere.
Why do the details I can't remember haunt me so?
A flash of light, the tearing of metal
like the screaming of dogs in a devouring
dance of energy.
The nuclear family detonating
with death inches away.
Everyone was asking, "What do you remember?"
"I don't know." 7 year old me said.
The family man leaving a gravestone like a calling card.
Sometimes, just before I fall asleep,
memories of him - which I hold dear -
come to me like the ghosts of departed friends.
Image after image in the embracing dark.
Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you?
Those images and that voice are strangely silent
in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened
to a world I'd rather reassemble.
it is what it is
