Your Father

 

Your father is still your father. Love him and forgive him as a young child.

The way you were in expectant, resolute delight of his arms around you.

Your father is still your father in his audacious crime of falling in love.

I, his Pygmalion’s statue, his muse, his mistress, his little goth whore,

you see me as nothing better than shit on your kitchen floor

before gathering round the dinner table to hate him a little more

for his Byronic hedonism, blaspheming beyond acceptance and norm.

 

What about your mother? Yes, I do have sympathy alongside my solitary tea.

I wonder how monogamy has served all these years and now it seems

all the tears have replaced all the fears as I unearthed parts of him

that had been long buried for years. Re-cornered to commit, we then quit

in the face of the screen of working class pseudo-Christian morality.

Injured wife plays out a scene that could well be from Coronation Street on TV.

 

He may be banished from me, but you cannot see into his mind’s reality.

I am still breathing with him every minute of the day. Go on, carry on, make

him what you want him to be, paying your rent and university tuition fees.

You think you are liberal, anti-establishment yet you keep him institutionalised

to feed your selfish needs. You writhe and rebel in flippant devastation

an austere reaction to the truth that he is not happy in what his life is.

 

I fluttered a hurricane into his dull unrealisation, brought him a unique colour

that blinded him so bright despite all the social conditioning and

marital expectations of his generation, not mine.  It is not who we are

but what we give to each other in life. I gave him sanctuary and time,

talked him up and down in clandestine finery, embracing his fears of losing

his children with blind faith that their love would not be shaken. I was mistaken.

 

Now alone, I teach my children that we need many loves to help us grow

and swans are an ideal elysium, not an expectation.  He still loves me

and I still love him, silently alongside victorian romantic stories of frustration

where all kinds of family, duty, obligation, and vanity win the game

against true happiness. You are still young, and freedom will fly from you too.

Love him, forgive him and when you next look in your father’ eyes, look for

the fire asphixed in his soul – that has now died.

 

© Katypoetess 2013

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