1.

You're a prehistoric animal,
lodged in the tar pit of my mind,
into the black, you're sinking,
not even your teeth, as long as
swords, are enough to get you out.
You leave sad messages on my
answering machine. "This is
Aaron's father." Words
from before there was any
writing to record them, but
now they don't mean a thing.

2.

Daddy, why don't you go take
a drink? Why don't you go
and hit your head against
the door jamb? Why don't
you go and beat your wife
again, show her who is boss?
Why don't you lose my
number, Daddy, and forget
my name? It shouldn't
be too hard. You're
only the one who gave it
to me. You're only the one.

3.

Where the seed hit the ground
we sprang up. We weeds, we
enemies, you didn't know what
to do, only knew what had been
done to you. Some people don't
learn lessons, are only doomed
to repetition. Hitler never studied
Napoleon. You never looked
your own father in the eye. I
stared at the outside of your
mother's coffin, but never looked
in. There's no use in caring
about the past. It's all just
going to happen again.

4.

They find bones tarred black
where some animal dropped
them, and they say they know
what happened. But animals
don't talk, and they're even
quieter when they're dead.
Who's going to know what
happened to us when we
are gone? Who's going to
know the story of our breaking?
The thick and black will steal
what we might have said,
what we might have done
differently, if we'd had a chance.
Our history is stolen, Daddy,
but, then again, we never
really deserved it, anyway.

11/24/2004

Author's Note: First time I've written a poem about my dad in a while. I suppose that's why it's so long.

Posted on 11/24/2004
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair