I am so filled with bitterness,
it comes from the dust, it comes
from the silence of my father, it comes
from the absence of Ma.
I could’ve loved her better.
She could’ve loved me, too.
But she’s rock and dust and wind now,
she’s carved stone,
she’s holding my stone brother.
I have given my father so many chances
to understand, to
reach out, to
love me. He once did.
I remember his smile,
his easy talk.
Now there’s nothing easy between us.
Sometimes he takes notice of me,
like coming after me in the dust.
But mostly I’m invisible.
Mostly I’m alone.
My father’s digging his own grave,
he calls it a pond,
but I know what he’s up to.
like his father,
ready to leave me behind in the dust.
Well, I’m leaving first.
July 1935