There was a metal door
between his office and me
and sometimes I'd drive
cars into it. It was a garage,
before. Then, filled with
hidden in desk drawers
like buried treasure,
sacraments for nosy girls.
When outside he finds
the holy departed, he
calls me for a plastic bag.
He picks up my cat,
wracked with rigor mortis
Daddy gives no eulogy.
But calmly he hands us an offering,
repeating the Psalm,
"Why don't we get some ice cream?"
My Daddy is a minister. He taught us to be good.
Those last three verses are everything!
Congratulations on the DLD, lovely! This piece was quite something special.
This is gorgeous. It's so strikingly different from the Sylvia Plath poem by the same name, yet none the less beautiful and haunting.
Aha, I wondered (and slightly feared) that comparison. Well, I'm no Plath, but then my father isn't either. Thank you so much.
Wow I just love these poems. I remember the incident you are writing about, although I wasn't there. Childhood...your dad
That's rather heartbreaking. Yet, absolutely warming at the same time. Nicely captured through a daughter's eyes, I think.