My Father
Bruce Curley
“One might say that any great creativity
bears within itself a tragedy.
And so this is mine ...”
Boris Pasternak
May 21, 1928
Moscow, USSR
My father,
always ran and ran and ran
to other people
constantly seeking from people
a pat on the back.
My father,
was eaten alive and spit out,
totally destroyed
by a world
he could not understand
and what would not understand him.
My father,
choked to death one night
and I
swallow and drink
ever since
once through the heart
and once through the head
before he reaches
my stomach.
