Under thumb

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.