The Good Father by Tricia Marcella Cimera

I am not a silent poet

for Vladimir J. Cimera


My father left this world ten years ago.

He died when the trees were blooming

in late April.  What a world this is now.

The Americans, the Russians, the

Syrians (poor Syrians).  Jesus, all of it.

If my father came back, he’d be surprised

that I should be shocked by any of it.

He let me read The Painted Bird, the

poetry of Tadeusz Różewicz when I was a

kid, he told me all about it, the fuckery,

the terribleness of people, things they do.

The things we do.  He loved books and

gave that to me.  He showed me how to

love this world, despite it all.  God, he was

a good father.

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