Dad was a Drunk

Hack out tongues lest they ignite
ashes that have lain long out of light:
fists on ears, eyes wired shut
inhale, exhale, hale enough.

Better all these years of lying
boarded in soggy cotton silence.

Time is distance, halted breath
breathing into its own undeath.

Memory waited, piling stones:
weapons for execution poems.

Crushing words as they emerged
hushed, into public, fully purged.

Less we regret the pain expanded
glass to mouth and we understand it.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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