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My Father
Nestling in the nook
of my tokonoma
that you built
in my mother’s houseYour ashes have lain
For nineteen years
In Chinese PorcelainIn armchair you writhed
your heart twisting in pain
My hands on yourlegs
Rubbing, pressing, in vain.
Sharply clear images
Sear through my brain
Not far from MacedoniaIt is the fearful place
Where your youngest son
learned to save lives
but which he left before
you were trundled in
to his teacher’s care,
that swims through
the Aegean blue
of these Grecian skies,
then settles on my eyes
clouded with November thoughts
five days before you went.
