I Wake Up Knowing My Father is Dead
I either remember too much or too little, forget
loved ones’ birthdays, but recall every word said in anger,
call them up at will. You distrust me, as you should,
the way I’ll use what you’ve said when needed. A friend
once said that everything is grist for the mill, and I think
of this when I draft & save, or submit, send some missive
into the ether, something they didn’t mean to tell me;
I hesitate, my finger over the “Enter” button, but always
push it, finally. For the absolute nothing I’ll take
to the grave: for what the coffee grounds spilled
in gravy represent. The waiting feels endless. Geese
fly overhead tonight, in the half-dark, announced
by their honking; the woods have remembered you
ever since the first time you stepped in them.*
*As fitting for a final poem, the closing lines are not mine. Thanks to @DothTheDoth for these enigmatic final words.
C. Kubasta’s most recent book of poetry is Of Covenants (Whitepoint Press). Find her at www.ckubasta.com and @CKubastathePoet
