At my father’s funeral I read a poem
one he’d written
it was not a villanelle
he did not rage against a dying light
it was a dream
of no pollution
treading softly in green fields
branches swaying
leaves
whispering
At my father’s funeral I read a poem
in his hand
writing straight from the page
he woke up
sorry for existence
a year before
I found it
when he died
At my father’s funeral I did not cry
I was on show
his daughter
sister to some men
like mother or the listening
for his surfacing women
mysteries
of lost love
At my father’s funeral I did not cry
howling as I had on hearing
of his death
wailing at the sea
fierce wild it heard me
losing
my father
who was never fully there
At my father’s funeral I read a poem
I knew then
he left us willing
to be free from any suffering
in his words
where I found them
in his house
I read his poems
cleared his sock drawer
heard his whispering
shadow
heard the answer
to my father
jostones 