What’s left of my father
When I look at my father all I see is body.
I see a pile of bones, some flesh and a dim flame that’s been burning for far too long.
Where once was a mountain now rests an abandoned field covered in snow, but he sets himself on fire in order to keep himself warm.
My father is always breathless, like an actor after a performance, he crawls back to his body and sews himself back into his old skin, hoping that it still fits.
My father is no Van Gogh, but he’s perfected the art of painting over a smile.
I see him choking on a mouthful of lonely, tries to keep it down with his morning coffee.
I’ve been told my dad and I share the same eyes,
Except his seem to be filled with glass.
They reflect a land of lost dreams, broken promises and everything he wishes he could have been.
His collapsing rib cage, like the movement of the tides, reminds him that he is still alive.
On certain days, his laugh resonates through my bones.
It is the only melody that I will never grow tired of hearing, it is more powerful than the whole spread of an orchestra, than one of Mozart’s greatest octave symphonies.
Poem by: Carla Lupou