Issue 2.2 Spring 2007

cover image

 

Lessons My Father Never Taught Me

Lauren Lubas

 

Ninety years old and

can’t control bowel movement.

Stepping away, if only atrophy

did not make such swift improvement.

 

He knows I am crying,

but not what crying is.

His tears spring

from fear of the fire

he smells from WWI.

 

The heart monitor says

he’s slowing

slowing down.

 

I prepare the bed

sheet to cover him

—it won’t be long now.

 

And his dying words to me

went something like this:

“If no one else is here

then it is you I’ll miss.

 

And if a dying breath

breaks your page with pen,

know only this:

love does not exist

in the hearts of men.

 

I love you.”

 

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