MOURN
My Father in my Bones
Again
he is in my head. In his armchair, he mutters;
reads
the paper, politics. From his lips flows
contempt
for a boss from his past.
He
is smoking. Curls of grey climb and stain
the
ceiling, the walls. A yellow light lingers.
The
radio bellows: cymbals clash and trumpets roar.
I
hear angry shouting through the door.We share
the
same nightmares. Piranesi staircases wind up
and
roller-coast down. Now he is gone.
In
my own house there's a drizzle. Cruises my bones.
Weaves
a path between flesh and veins.
A
patter of rain falls on the panes. It slithers
in
broken lanes. On iron railings it drips, drops.
On
the window rim it seeps into stone. Pools of icy
water
sketch landscapes. A map of the world.
We
share the geography he loved. He used to pore
over
an atlas, fighting forgotten battles. He dreamt
of
perfect quests into unknown lands, I dream too.
We
share a passion for history. When I think, whimpers
of
wash creep up over cutting moss, I shudder.
Aches
skate across my shoulder blades.
I
remember him in his chair. A garden seat in the shade
of
the hazelnut tree. Even in warm weather
he
shivered beneath a tight woolly.
His
small boned hands at the end of my arms are numb.
I
have blisters bobbing bubbles, bruised chins
and
shins. We share a razor sharp blood line.
We
share the notes of a tune tumbling
into
bass booms and silent grumbling.
©susanbauryrouchard
published Paragram Anthology, Remember, December 2014.
My father died in September 2005. I wrote this poem in January 2009. It was twice this size. I edited it a first time between February and May 2009; then again in 2012 and 2013. After it was published, I didn't touch it again. My mourning was complete.