For a year I only write about my father.
Words pour out in streams.
I am a jug filled with father thoughts
until one day they stop
and then every day I write
about her, more than 365 days,
all about her.
It shocks me how many thoughts
of her fit into a jug.
How liquid they are until only some
flow from me and then the very last ones
dribble onto the page and it is over.
I have not thought about him since the writings.
My mind is empty. All was said. Everything,
every last thought, said.
I am now devoid of father thoughts,
as if I had had no father.
Then the jug fills up again, this time with mother thoughts.
Every day I write about her. It shocks me.
Every day I tip the jug and from its spout pour
the rivers and rivers of mother thoughts.
Sometimes it seems I will never run out but I do.
The day came when the jug felt dry as baked clay.
My mind on the subject of mother was empty.
Now I see her name and my mind is blank.
I am purged and clean; I am a motherless person.
Then my man died and his death usurped.
Everything I encounter connects me to his absence.
I have been under that thumb for so long
and I'm afraid to stop because he too will be gone.
Out of mind, out of sight.