My father (two poems by Sara)

I Wish my Father

I wish my father could have held my hand
and told me how he felt about loss.

He might have pulled me to him and
given me a kiss before saying:

"Blossom, a secret untold can destroy,
love is not love without truth,
sometimes it is best to risk all
to follow your passion
to it's end.

"Do not let your petals fall
one by one with passing years,
'he loves me, he loves me not'.

"Know you are loved,
turn your face to the sun
and be splendid."

I wish my father could have put his arm
around me and told me about the pain:

"My daughter,  I have been hurt
but it is not for you to heal me.

"I will tell you the truth now
so that when I am gone
your wondering will not
turn into wandering.

"And you will speak for me
you will speak for all those
whose pain has no words."

I wish my father could have laid his head
on my shoulder and cried:

"First-born, you are a strong one
you were meant to lead the way,
turn your losses into truths -
make of them blessings.

"Never feel shame for your tears."

I wish my father could have shouted, just once,
against all the injustices, but it was never his way.

He left the pain of love and loss
in our ancestral line to me:
"Grandmother, Grandfather, Great Ancestors,
this is your humble daughter speaking
'Show me the way'."

The poem above was inspired by an exercise described in Finding What you Didn't Lose: Expressing Your Truth and Creativity Through Poem-Making by John Fox (p. 220).  He calls it a 'wish poem to your parents'.  It is different from blaming.  Instead, it is 'a way of reframing your experience and using your own creativity to express to yourself what you wanted to hear from a parent'.  However wonderful a parent, there will always be many things they cannot provide.

Black (Tlazolteotl)

There is black
    in my bones.

Perhaps my gaze
    is turning
        towards darkness.

Perhaps my life
    is turning.

Perhaps
    the she-panther
        will come
            growling
                low in the throat
                    of death.

And the raven
    will fly
        high above me
            like a blessing
                like the wings
                    of my father.

Plucking a rose
    from the eye
        of the panther.

A blush.

A truth.

Perhaps my blood
    will flow
        free again.

Perhaps
    there in the black
        of my bones
             lies my
                 salvation.

These two poems were written during 2005-6 at a time in my life when I often called on my beloved deceased father's spirit to guide me through.

See also Like the wings of my father for a Father's Day remembrance.