POEM FOR MY FATHER

HANNAH COHEN

 
 

The voicemails I leave
don’t exist, but my broken
mugs do. Months apart but
 
ceramic still, every
small slice a sunray
in my palm. No one around
 
when I plunk the pieces
into trash bags. Another draft
of this life scrapped.
 
When I bring this poem
to workshop, my peers will ask
are you a metaphor
 
or did I make you into one?
As if you exist to me only
in words and also not words.
 
In certainties outside time.
This poem in whatever shape
you want. Compassion, even.

 

 
 

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