| For Mr. James Lynch, and other surrogate fathers everywhere What do I tell you you mean to me today? Perching eager pen in steady hand I wait for art and lovely to Flow forward in commemoration A clearing of the throat Two pregnant pauses later, and I still have no poetry. This is a Man's World But in the haunted house of Qualls Amazons ruled unaccompanied Stalked by common fear of steel roses with regal backbones I came of age among this; Understanding such queries now Is as foreign to me as native tongues As perplexing as love poems written for those not actually loved How does one answer this question When the answer never mattered before now? How does one paint sunrises when the concept of sun made no sense Before now? See, it's hard to admit when you miss your father, Harder still to live amongst the brokenhearted, It's simply hard to face facts sometimes: that the very face you seek while saddling up to alternative male presences is of one you never knew you wanted at all Never knew you needed at all. I find myself here in this moment, Smack dab amongst the legion of Electra Who curse the iron wills of their mothers snatching eagerly at the hope of redemption. We stretch taut, desperate fingers toward the whims of this world Grabbing hold to men everywhere through our symbolic prayers, For simple tastes of peace and balance: Strong arms grasping tightly Committed love clutching tighter still To our spirits, reclaiming our innocence Our delicacy Our freedom I still can't answer the question. Months of Hallmark catch phrases congealed at the roof of my mouth as I Tried to write this poem And I've resolved to freeze them there Knowing they can't at all express the extent of what I want to say. I've strained for poetics in the pauses of this moment And instead met pen to pad to create my whole and honest truth: I don't know what you mean to me, But I swear on all I hold dear That you do. |
| Random Order/Tracie Gilbert Father's Day |
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