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.