Your father killed a man
smoked a cigarette &
ate his ear.
The sun descended &
he confessed father to son his
drunken family confession
under the white incandescent
moon.
The last bright thing inside me
stolen by your hands wrapped
around a wineglass stem.
But here I am
for the last time
on the hill—in the
Gary Room drunk
on poetry, drowning
with all fathers and sons.
I heard you left our city
on a horse, reins in your hands.
Where are you going, silencer?
Far, far away.
The city stands without
your sound
soundless I stand
without your sound.
Anonymous to the rest
of the world
you flee as a fragile
nameless fragment—
a tyrant of our time.
- Geri Gale
Bio:
Geri Gale’s books include: Patrice: a poemella, Alex: The Double-Rescue Dog, and Waiting: prosepoems. Her poetry, prose, and drawings have appeared in ang(st): the feminist body zine, Sinister Wisdom, Poetry Pacific (forthcoming), South Loop Review: Creative Nonfiction + Art, Bayou Magazine, Under the Sun, and Canadian Jewish Outlook.