My father died when I was seven.
Like a girl in a museum I am drawn to his pictures.
Inadequate reproductions, they 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.

We're late. Can we make up the time?
Twilight, grimy cars all headed in the opposite direction.

The nuclear family detonating, a small, local tragedy.
Killed in a car with us all. 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.

A man of wit and talent 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 strangly silent in the morning as
I'm, once again, pushed through a door i am not ready to enter.

Back