Tell my father (if you can find him)
that I, too, have died; tell him that I am dead, and
if I say, all paths have led to this place,
to this avenue where the olives grow,
let him know that I found some comfort there,
where the cherry spread its boughs and
lemons ripened in winter sun…
So, when that final day is done, beyond any
exact hour or minute, say, I stayed on and watched
as my old sol dipped, and that old moon rose
as yellow as that fruit’s faithless amrita. O bitter,
sour is the flavour of the mortal earth,
even as the red-kissed sky paints it not,
even as the slivered moon waits
and watches for its ghosts to disinter,
yet, from the winter’s cold no spectres stir:
they have no cure for that fatal cut,
no moment to revisit the drawing night.
But, I might not surrender, old man. If I may,
let me linger here beneath the opened arms
of heaven’s gate…
And wait… as shadows shudder beneath,
imitating forms that once stood here
in the glade where the sun still shone and would
not admit to anything other than a cycle:
as though returning was as natural
as this spinning orb.
While this whetted winter draws about, without
a warm hand to guide a laden pen, let me
begin and say again, ‘Tell my father that I am dead!’
Tell him, that I cut the lemon from the tree before
it was ripe, and I ****** ******* nectar **** until
I’d drained its heart, then spat its pithy skin upon
the road. Tell him, I walked the avenue and heard
the black fruit ***** beneath my impatient tread.
Say, I made some notes along this way,
and I left them sheltered beneath the olives’ spread
where, if he has the time, he can read
perpend the thoughts that I was disinclined to speak.
By Data © May, 2014
Upon the suicide of my father...