to my father

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

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