Monday, January 14, 2013

To the Siblings I Never Met


In case you ever wonder 
about the man who flicked you off

like a cigarette, about what you missed, 
I want to tell you he lived by strict rules: 

No touching, no conversation. A language
of snarls, mutterings, angry stares.

We constantly offended him. 

Oh, an occasional wisecrack or two, 
so amusing that raucous whooping sprung 
loose from my knots-- 

laughter so unrestrained he thought I was screaming--
and there was his strawberry shortcake in summer--

a delicious cloud of whipped cream on slopes
of pound cake mushy with fruit.

And there was that wink--a sudden impish entrapment
to call a truce, to pardon him with Freudian notions--

he too grew up forsaken--or simpler ones,
like, men are
made for war.

But under his crushing disregard, 
our brothers malfunctioned mightily.

He was their chief impeder and they his 
and though we're old now and he long dead, 

his finger points with taut disdain at 
each of us who are still squeamish, 
still tensed--still hoping, insanely, he’ll change.

That’s what we are heir to. 
It’s all that accrued to the children 
he did not leave behind.




2 comments:

  1. Lovely poem, Ellen. And so sad. What is it with these men, these unfathomable, mid-century fathers? And has anything changed?

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  2. Hi Jack, I think our generation did somewhat better. You sure did. Thanks for stopping by.

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