Today is my father’s birthday. He would be 96. It also happens to be Shakespeare’s, which should probably be more important (he’s a LOT older, for one) to a poet. But it’s not.<\/p>\n
I looked for poems about fathers, which seems appropriate. This one won, as I often want to ask my father about something, or share news with him…<\/p>\n
Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World<\/strong><\/p>\n by Sherman Alexie I wonder whom I should call? A plumber, Who is most among us and most deserves He’s astounded by bathroom telephones. I say, “Can I talk to Poppa?” She gasps, Has been dead for nearly a year. “Shit, Mom,” How did I forget?” “It\u2019s okay,” she says. This morning and left it on the table\u2014 And I didn’t realize my mistake At the angels who wait for us to pause And sing our praise to forgetfulness Those angels burden and unbalance us. Those angels, forever falling, snare us Today is my father’s birthday. He would be 96. It also happens to be Shakespeare’s, which should probably be more important (he’s a LOT older, for one) to a poet. But it’s not. I looked for poems about fathers, which seems appropriate. This one won, as I often want to ask my father about something,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":398,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[325,22],"tags":[11,1181,1187,262,1195,523,318,1190,524,522],"class_list":["post-5784","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-death","category-poetry","tag-beginners-heart","tag-britton-gildersleeve","tag-buddhism","tag-buddhist-blogs","tag-family","tag-grief-calls-us-to-the-things-of-this-world","tag-national-poetry-month","tag-poetry","tag-poetry-about-fathers","tag-sherman-alexie"],"yoast_head":"\n
\nThe morning air is all awash with angels . . .<\/em>
\n – Richard Wilbur<\/em>
\nThe eyes open to a blue telephone
\nIn the bathroom of this five-star hotel.<\/p>\n
\nProctologist, urologist, or priest?<\/p>\n
\nThe first call? I choose my father because<\/p>\n
\nI dial home. My mother answers. “Hey, Ma,<\/p>\n
\nAnd then I remember that my father<\/p>\n
\nI say. “I forgot he\u2019s dead. I\u2019m sorry\u2014<\/p>\n
\n“I made him a cup of instant coffee<\/p>\n
\nLike I have for, what, twenty-seven years\u2014<\/p>\n
\nUntil this afternoon.” My mother laughs<\/p>\n
\nDuring the most ordinary of days<\/p>\n
\nBefore they slap our souls with their cold wings.<\/p>\n
\nThose fucking angels ride us piggyback.<\/p>\n
\nAnd haul us, prey and praying, into dust.
\n– See more at: http:\/\/www.poets.org\/viewmedia.php\/prmMID\/19508#sthash.vvyE4TGm.dpuf<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"