On my father
by Arthur Allen
like snow drifting down
from where my mother lives-
loneliness in Tokyo
Machi Tawara
I see as you see,
the sun
hidden in the blue mountains
bluebells pooled about your legs
mountains so high they reach
to heaven but you
need not go that far
I don’t lose
sleep over the mercy of God
into the garden where pear-
blossoms fall
I will go to see
my mother with her joy
broken for keeps, a sob
breaking like a small bone in her throat
trying to eat the lie
that once you were gone
you were an abandonable thing
found maculate
on your side, limbs like crushed cowslip flowers
tangled in the bicycle frame.
Swept aside
by something that had passed,
gone in the wake
of something that was passed.