Andrew Burke

(1944 - / Melbourne / Australia)

Dear Father


How sick I get of your ghost
stirring the blood between us,
how sick of the ties
that hold me.
Father, a shrink on the highway
told me to write. To who?
I have made you up. You are
the air in my birthday balloon
the clown at our barbecue
proud patron of the bottle-o
you shape my fingers and my toes
you cast my shadow
my every look-over-the-shoulder
you carve my tombstone in womb bone.
How sick I get of my ties to you.
Let this be a letter
to the Dead Letter office
(I'm sick of your jokes).
Father, I untie you -
air rushes out
and I whoop ...
I'm fifty,
it's time to let go.

Submitted: Tuesday, May 22, 2012

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