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Untitled #11
by Jason Brindel
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My
Father is Dead
by Kathryn Atwood
The moon is round as Gouda;
the planets spin by
too near the dark earth.
The only light is broken;
its shards cut me
so those who were watching and hoping for light
turn from me to gaze at the Gouda moon.
What’s to be done?
Don’t come. He’s here, still here.
I can’t fix this either, but I must
weep for his sons, who stand outside to greet
the living for the dead. The sun is too bright.
How long will he stay here in the dark?
I will say he is sleeping.
I touch his leg, but he doesn’t wake
not even to run by the light of the moon,
not even to ski by the light of the sun.
His legs are frozen.
He must drive to Paradise;
(he drove us there when we were cold
never stopping once
for the moon or for the sun).
Who will drive us there now?
The moon is round as Gouda;
the planets spin by
too near the dark earth;
the only light has broken,
And my father is dead.
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