The Second Death
the outburst of the telephone
the clamorous ring
the jostling sound
nearly threw me from my seat;
as I spoke to you
as the receiver sobbed
I tried to console you
to calm you down
without hanging up altogether.
Don’t apologize for the outburst
for I don’t mind helping you through.
I don’t need the help myself.
No, I’m not going to go see him;
they have to ship his body to me anyway.
It doesn’t matter.
He was a stranger to me then,
and he is a stranger to me now.
He is no colder than he was.
No, I don’t want to say good-bye
to him:
I see no point
in saying good-bye to a man
I never said hello to.
Or I love you.
And I’m only sorry to see mother
shake as she’s sipping her coffee.
I hate to see the people mourn.
He was such a good man,
it’s a shame to see him go,
we’ll all miss him so.
No.
They did not know
of his yells and screams
in a drunken stupor,
or his terrible indifference;
they did not know
of the stubbornness
or of the ice in his stare.
And I can’t forgive him for leaving me
long before leaving this world.
Daddy,
I am not heartbroken
and I will not miss you.
I miss not having a father.
I have always missed the man
who smothers his baby daughter with love
when he comes home from work
and who loves to call me
daddy’s little girl.
Father,
I will not cry for you,
for you died long ago.
Copyright Janet Kuypers.
All rights reserved. No material
may be reprinted without express permission.
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