Last of the series from 2015. Let's get it over with!

Saturdays With Father 4 - The Conclusion

Strange Intermediary
No bribery of soda or candy can dispel the gloom
on the way home.

No ceremony of ice cream or sing-song.
And he spits, "if you were a normal child ..."

but I 've never been normal,
and now on top of it all, I am mute--by-election.

" ... I suppose you want those fancy cookies,
I suppose you want pretty dresses and girly socks
and all the things I can't afford ..."

Did I say he was never stupid?
Of course, he was.
In the stupid, bitter, claustrophobic afternoon.

We are prisoners in this aristocracy of desire,
this dull bureaucracy of want.
I am locked inside with the golden key.
Poor Fluke. Poor Birdie.
Trapped in this unlivable jeweled cage.

I sit in the plushness of couches
and press a letter opener to my throat
while a background of overripe, histrionic sounds
comes from another part of the vast house.

In the room, I am large next to hundreds of tiny ornate picture frames,
framing I suppose, what is most precious to them:
mother and father, son and daughter, captured at every age.

The parade of inheritance.
Family: the sanctified, official version,
the heirs apparent, all holding enormous keys.
Brilliant futures.

Did they know I was the poor child
standing in their houses,
in the wretched afternoons, alone?

And the money? What did I do with it?

Every week, I placed it like roses,
at the feet of my mother's statue of the Virgin Mary.
Each Saturday evening I would slip into her blue-lit sepulcher,
while Mother performed her ablutions.

Strange intermediary, I passed the riches
from one woman to another,
under the auspices of the Blessed Mother herself.
How could my mother question or refuse such a thing?

Perverse little wage earner.
I have no idea what she did with it.

Perhaps she has said some extra novenas for me.
Christ knows, I could use them.
I am going to rot in hell.

I have to date, refused,
the intercessions of the Monsignor on my behalf,
and every intervention.
No special petitions, please,
No prayers for me.

Poetry by Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 180 times
Written on 2018-06-08 at 07:28

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yes, kant can The PoetBay support member heart!
utterly crap
as usual
he he he

In the narrative shadowed by terror, I see sharp and intense images that are both striking and haunting. The loneliness, the misery, the poverty ... the effect is chilling!


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
There is a terrible loneliness to this poem. Three people are in the house, but each is left to her- or himself. This loneliness continues. "Don't bother trying. I can't be saved."

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
these poems, for me, are a link to when i joined pbay and discovered "Ashe."

they are familiar, the story is familiar, the poems themselves are vivid, but leave much to the imagination (which is good). i have read every poem of yours on this site many times, and what is unsaid here is often said elsewhere. still, this is rich and renewed, and thank you for the journey.

you say, "Let's get it over with!" looking back with such intensity must have its cost.

Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Masterful, especially these lines (for me): "this aristocracy of desire,/ the dull bureaucracy of want."

Thank you for this sequence. This last poem instills the appetite to reread the other three, and simply to marvel at the skill, the emotional and esthetic accuracy.