The Thicket Speaks
My father wore an almanac of disapprovals
his maimed mother had dressed him in.
No mornings, evenings or seasons, just
publications of self rejection dusted daily
that clung like distasteful dogshit.
Tabulations from his submerged heart
perpetuated an unspoken unhappiness
the beautiful man could not be rescued from.
The heave from his disregard commuting
him to a concealed replica called a wedding.
The consecutive years set seven sets of ears
to his mother’s finely tuned ensemble,
his successes decked in photographs
and words unacknowledged; the unused
howling emotions buried with his father.
At the largest funeral in our neighbourhood,
the one he spent a lifetime dreaming about,
one of Dad’s admiring teammates told me
that he was the bravest man he had met,
he’d put his head where you wouldn’t put your boot.
Sing to me Dad from this thicket of peace
and love and safety you now call home,
speak to me of the gallant portraits they’ve
festooned your heart and mind with.
Tell me, how do you feel.