Parental Poetry Poem by James McLain

More often than not it is not about Mom.
The poetry we write is about Dad.
More than half ... Oh ... Mummy.
To young to know you did what you did, and.
This language, it does not do, it simply does not do,
dresses and shoes, panties and socks and I'm you.
As I continue somehow to grow older I breath more boldly.
The father you have said, I must kill.
Before I died before he came along where was I?
Behind, being time ahead a clean start, why did you lie?
The sack of marbles of one, God it is heavy.
Before he went away every night you would say that the head
wedged open the the door of heaven to the point where.
I started counting to twenty.
We walked up the steps speaking like the math person.
The snow you miss from North Dakota.
Did you not see more snow in two days,
than my Daddy has seen in a life time?

Why did he take me away that night.
Clear bottles of wine and perfumed breath.
I can not eat apples any more I hate grapes.
I remember you with the image, you it is less,
and you rather than the ripping.
Your hand on the oak of his slack teeth flashing open jaw.

You knew what he and I and you should have done.
Love of the person and the shelf and you on top.
His back was bad you screwed him there out back,
where I and he made your car model.
Those others not him, being you, dance and I am to push.
They had always known that is.
Father come help me and father, coarse other item, I'm.