One year after I wrote this poem, my father passed away, something that the end of the poem hinted might happen and that I’m still grappling with, learning how to “read.” After my parents’ divorce, they became great friends, partly because they were two decent, kind human beings who began to recognize that about each other. My mother was there when my father took his final breath, one of the last people to hold his hand, rub his arm, tell him he could let go.
Greg Oaks on "Topography" |
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