Sometimes

Sometimes

Sometimes
The Old House (Part Two, December 2000)
*

I can type here in the kitchen:
the only neutral room,
though the house is empty.

Even now, as I sort through the things
of this house I grew up in,
knowing the house must be sold
due to extreme financial negligence,
I understand how it got so bad.

After my father’s death of lung cancer,
we three children were left
to raise ourselves in some way.
My mother’s grief was too great.

I forgive her everything.
Her house, a shrine of weakness,
is a beacon of neglect.
I forgive her absence during our childhood,
her drinking,
her abusiveness,
her volatility:
All of it stemmed in some way
from an irrecoverable grief.

AuthorDavid Holler
2018-08-21T17:23:36+00:00 October 1st, 2002|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 28|0 Comments