THE FIRST FATHER
The rest of what I have to say I will slip under your gravestone if I have time after I buy that red dress. To say I hate you is an overstatement; I only detest what I know of you, the rest I leave to other people who might have the misfortune to cross your path. Your unavailability can protect you from anything I could ever do to you. Your hurt and arrogance is far worse a punishment than I could ever inflict on you if I thought you were worth the energy of an attempt. Having to be you every day must make it hard to leave the bed in the morning; I know I couldn’t do it if I had to drag your baggage around all day. The sad part is I’m not sure you know it’s baggage. You might think it’s armor, but your misnaming of everything is just another of the things I never miss about you. That is why, although I pray everyday for your well being for the sake of mine, if I never see you again, it might just be long enough.
Live up to your height.
Because there never seems to be enough love
in the world to fill the wound,
my wounded self riots.
At times the debauchery seems good natured enough,
flamboyant yet without harm,
at other times the disturbance is apparently violent
and the issuing tumult a crime.
All for want of wholeness and sanity
I pursue shattered fractured activity
just to keep from dwelling where I cannot live,
where there is no air.
I want land beneath my feet
and full, full lungs
on my own I find neither of these
and little else of use.
Isolation even in a crowd is the tell tale sign
that I am in the, me, myself and I mode
of drowning in a teacup and require rescue.
Little more than raising my hand above the surface
and asking for help is needed
though this is a Herculean effort as we all know.
Rowing up stream is a bigger battle then it ever looks
and I know the river runs through me.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault