Posted: October 3, 2008 in Poetry

I have tried many times to write poems about you,
I wrote letters to you with Poe-inspired barbs:
“The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as best I could–”
Some spired turn of phrase to wall you out of my mind, or
A slammed-out polemic to chant and burn after reading;
I psychoanalyzed mama’s distrust of you since my single-digits.

Sometimes I think to call you, if only to save my sisters,
I practice veiled words of caution and unspoken grief,
“Though he provides, he also takes away,”
“His defensive venom sometimes misfires,”
But I am no poet, no author, no scholar–
My words lose fire when I think of you.


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