When they brought my father out
of Germany, he weighed ninety-two
pounds. He had no tolerance
for picky eaters.
Was he still
a boy then? Was he kind?
They could leave the camp
but had nowhere to go.
A brass key to a church, where
sometimes there was food. Then
back through the foreign woods.
Who might he have been?
If not for this? Did he dream, ever,
of people burning beneath his plane?
Does it matter?
What counts against him?
What weighs in his favor?
Who has the right
to measure?
Very touching
Parents and Children,
How much of who we are,
they are, too
All the fears they have
for us, all the hopes
We have for them
as well.
Peace to you and to the memory of your dear Dad.
You, Ken, may be a dear — but my father was, most definately, not.
Usually your poems seem just the right length, but this one feels like the beginning of something longer – maybe quite a bit longer. I guess because it raises so many questions. And the opening lines have that vatic sound of the long poem about them…
Leave a Reply