DAD. DAD.
by Louise Robertson
For the summertime contest,
I read 568 poems, 328 about fathers.
They counted out deaths
--lots of loose skin and fat sweat.
They marked injustices--
Captain Queeg’s metal balls.
They ran up the hill getting further
away, calling out: Dad! Dad!
Was I supposed to measure the heft
of these confessions?
I don’t know how to weigh that. My dad
suffocated.
And if I’m running away
from him, I promise I am not yelling,
not whispering, not speaking into
my hat saying dad, dad,
where are you? I swear.
How’s that for a prayer?
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