The Moya View

Epitaph as My Father’s Son

There is no house 
that is not my father’s.

There are no fixed stars,
just shaken bits of misery,
tiny disasters tethered to hope.

From the house he loved,
I feel the slap of his inner pain,
fist waves hitting the footers.

It was easy for him to fight back,
(he had to do it to get anywhere)
harder for him to forgive it all,
flow with the wind and waves.

I don’t know whether he
was able to fix himself by
picking up the lost pieces
of himself he spent
so long searching for
from that rocky beach.

At a certain point
we just blew forward,
swam with the waves.

I’m sorry Dad,
the world now
makes more sense
now you’re gone.





2 responses to “Epitaph as My Father’s Son”

  1. caroline46 Avatar

    This is excellent. As always your ability to evoke images and a kind of mental conversation. Thank you

  2. caroline46 Avatar

    Very moving. Written with skill that only you possess

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