MY FATHER: 1978

Eager to blame, I lift the past.

Let there be worms under the stone.

Like:

When I cried with exhaustion

you slapped me for making noise.

Or:

I wished to be a poet. You,

predictable merchant, fumed.

Or:

When they put me in uniform,

you said: It will make a man of you.

Or:

You blustered at the maids

but snivelled at the sight of any badge.

Or:

The week before you died

you took a fling at bankruptcy

hoping to defraud your creditors

six of whom were bosom friends.

Eager to blame, I lift the past.

I find no worms under the stone.

I can’t hate down my grief. It grows.

Father!

Is it like you to hurt your child?