Death Anniversary
All night the candles are left burning in a room like some monastery deep in medieval Spain. The boy walks into the dark to place carnations and pour rum on his father’s grave, every 11th of May, at midnight. The moon is there as a witness, pus colored yet clear. For the boy: days start with forced smiles, with scraps of paper, with a drowsy head. He took to heart Robert Bly’s advice ever since he saw his videos on YouTube, writing something each morning in bed, naked. But for the last 18 years, the poem about my father lingers, like a toppled monument, in the corner, unfinished.
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