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  • I don’t know how to do this,
    reach back into the past where
    sometimes your eyes met mine
    like we were in a duel,
    we came to blows and your
    hands hurt me and others
    like the deep red rose
    of my mother,

    how could you?

    but, then again, you bruised
    your own cheek with big
    tears that fell from your
    eyes like boulders in an old
    Western film, an outlaw
    from the family who loved
    you, an outsider whose place
    in life was never quite clear.

    You didn’t steer that car
    of your fathers into the grill
    of a drunken angry man coming down
    that fated highway opposite,
    with Christmas decorations still up
    and most people preparing for the new
    year, not a funeral with 3 boys, now
    lost a dad, an animal lover, my Nana’s
    prince, who made the best pizza.

    You weren’t responsible for that.

    You had no idea how your pain
    was not a good thing to hide,
    in cheap wine and brittle
    bravado, no it wasn’t a good
    thing to bury,

    it buried you.

    Wounds are chains, sometimes
    feathers, sometimes intoxication,
    sometimes shake out a rhythm from
    the rattles of a rainbow vertebrae.

    I don’t know how to do this,
    Hold your hand and brush wrinkles
    from the furrows of your broken spirit,
    your wounded heart, where you plow
    through the night, leaving threads
    that are either woven into memory’s
    tapestry or left an unmanageable mess,
    tangled with all else that is unresolved
    in our cobweb universe, where answers
    aren’t and aches remain.

    September 14, 2010 (in remembrance of my father, who passed away on September 14th, 1996)
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