For your father, I forgive you, his spiders
made your webs. On a cloudy day, head bent
back, black boughs obscure the sky, a tangled
trap; how you weep when they hold you.
Water never was enough, I forgive you still
for swimming in the drink or deeper through
the veins. Yes, his arms were large enough
to save you but they never reached you.
This is not a eulogy for your father or your
helplessness; every secret too is beautiful
and cursed. Some see light where light has never
set a foot or shadow in the brightest world.
How do I know I can forgive you; can you
hear me, these few well-chosen words? Within
my heart a space as wilde as mountains, there
among the rocks and flowers is a saddened boy
burying his father.
1 comment:
Beautiful. Haunting. Wow.
I love how the images lead into one another. Webs become branches that are a tangled trap hiding the sky, those branches and their embrace become a father's arms.
The strength of your images allows you to use well-placed abstractions to very beautiful effect. "every secret is too beautiful and cursed," sounds lovely, and is immediately followed by some appropriately beautiful and mystical images: light and shadow playing against each other, the "brightest world."
Through all this, you communicate your subject matter clearly, never losing sight of the boy who was wounded and changed for the worse by his father and his father's death, and the compassion of the narrator for this boy. The opening lines state the theme with ease, precision, and beauty. His spiders made your webs.
Thank you for sharing this; it was a joy to read.
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