my dad is dying and I don’t believe it.
we waste so much time at war,
engaged in battle on a million fronts:
the complete absence of truth,
the preponderance of lies.
I’m so angry it eats me up
and I completely fail to see
till he’s too weak to argue any more,
that he’s wasting away before my eyes.
corona means I can’t hold him,
this shrunken, helpless, incontinent,
trembling bundle of bones.
and I discover too late
that I love him despite
our problematic past, the long list
of grievances I keep in my head.
I can’t bear to see him suffer
and so I find all of a sudden
that I can let go of the past,
the cruelty, the hair-trigger temper,
the dark years of dictatorship
lived tentatively on the foothills
of his volcanic wrath.
my heart breaks
is like a wound
that starts bleeding
and won’t stop
and the blood washes away
everything but love.
Photo of me and my Dad by Sally Jones (Sally Mussett as was)