The day my father died
I could not cry;
My mother cried,
Not I.
His face on the pillow in the dim light
Wrote mourning to me,
Black and white.
We saw him struggle,
Stiffen, relax;
The face fell empty,
Dead as wax.
I’d read of death
But never seen.
My father’s face, I swear,
Was not serene.
Topple that lie
However appealing;
That face was absence
Of all feeling.
My mother’s tears were my tears,
Each sob shook me:
The pain of death is living,
The dead are free.
For me my father’s death
Was not her sorrow;
That day was her day,
Loss was tomorrow.
