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[brigits_flame] Fly on the Walls of Yore
Fly on the Walls of Yore
I have often wondered, these long years
later, what happened between the two of you.
I was too young to understand how
delicate the threads of family
can sometimes be. Here one day,
gone the next: a man I could have called Father
in another life.
I imagine being in the room, still
too young to get out of the crib,
on that fateful December evening.
I hear you, Father, DaDa. I hear
your voice, louder than my newborn ears
can really manage. I hear MaMa crying.
I think you may have hit her. I can't decide
if she left with me then or if you left that night,
protecting us from you in the only way
you knew.
No: it's morning, early morning. Early enough that you
still would call it night, though Mother rises
in two short hours. You don't pass the living room,
trying not to wake me, but she hears you and comes
from the bedroom. You collapse face-first on the couch.
Mother rouses you, tries to lead you to bed,
but you blink up at her blearily. "Diane?"
She knows only one Diane, your secretary
and whore.
But: I'm stretched on my stomach, inhabiting
Blanky in the dining room. Mom is folding
our clean towels. Your head is on the table
in the crease of an elbow, spare hand toying with my pacifier.
I don't see who speaks first, but the air
is a jumble of broken promises and regret. Granny and Pop
will take us in; you will move out and head west
as soon as we are no longer your burden.
Mom sighs in the afternoon sun and tells you
tomorrow.
Or: the morning is cold, and we have been up all night
waiting in vain for your shift to end, for you to
come home.
I often wonder, these long years later,
where I would be right now if none of those had happened.
I can't see how I might be different, but I know
I would not be here, in this coffee shop, waiting
for you to stitch those threads back together again.
I have often wondered, these long years
later, what happened between the two of you.
I was too young to understand how
delicate the threads of family
can sometimes be. Here one day,
gone the next: a man I could have called Father
in another life.
I imagine being in the room, still
too young to get out of the crib,
on that fateful December evening.
I hear you, Father, DaDa. I hear
your voice, louder than my newborn ears
can really manage. I hear MaMa crying.
I think you may have hit her. I can't decide
if she left with me then or if you left that night,
protecting us from you in the only way
you knew.
No: it's morning, early morning. Early enough that you
still would call it night, though Mother rises
in two short hours. You don't pass the living room,
trying not to wake me, but she hears you and comes
from the bedroom. You collapse face-first on the couch.
Mother rouses you, tries to lead you to bed,
but you blink up at her blearily. "Diane?"
She knows only one Diane, your secretary
and whore.
But: I'm stretched on my stomach, inhabiting
Blanky in the dining room. Mom is folding
our clean towels. Your head is on the table
in the crease of an elbow, spare hand toying with my pacifier.
I don't see who speaks first, but the air
is a jumble of broken promises and regret. Granny and Pop
will take us in; you will move out and head west
as soon as we are no longer your burden.
Mom sighs in the afternoon sun and tells you
tomorrow.
Or: the morning is cold, and we have been up all night
waiting in vain for your shift to end, for you to
come home.
I often wonder, these long years later,
where I would be right now if none of those had happened.
I can't see how I might be different, but I know
I would not be here, in this coffee shop, waiting
for you to stitch those threads back together again.
dodos rolling out the edit wagon,he pauses
Here one day,
gone the next: a man I could have called Father
in another life.
Except the protagonist (?) can still call him Father. How about something like hmm..could have grown to call Father?
hear you, Father, DaDa. I hear
your voice, louder than my newborn ears
I think I would scratch the Father, DaDa, because it is the only time in the poem he is addressed by a title. And I would have used infant instead of newborn..simply because newborns are generally not kept in cribs. ( did warn you I was going to be picky)
You don't pass the living room,
trying not to wake me, but she hears you and comes
from the bedroom. You collapse face-first on the couch.
This bit confuses me. He does not pass the living room but he collapses on the couch? Perhaps if you just cut the first line and combined the next two?
. Your head is on the table
in the crease of an elbow, spare hand toying with my pacifier.
I just thought I would mention that to me this is one of the most powerful lines in the poem. It shows, and this could be just me, that regardless of what is going on, the father does love the child.
One may say, why is Bardi being so picky? Well, the poem is that powerful for one. Or I just get grouchy when in pain, who knows. I am actually going to go for the former.
no subject
He does not pass the living room but he collapses on the couch?
In my neck of the woods, that would mean that he came into the living room - probably the door is in that room or close by - but he didn't come any further into the house than that. I didn't realize this wasn't common usage! Is there some other way you can think of to phrase that to make the meaning clear?