I'Ve Often Thought Of How My Old Man Died Poem by John Libertus

I've often thought of how my old man died:
a cancer, they said, shaped like a star,
grew in his brain, and fed upon
what he could call himself
until, at last, a vessel burst,
and drowned him in the caverns of his mind.

One night, before the last, he cried,
and begged my mother's pardon
for leaving her behind
with half his love unspoken;
she replied,
she'd have had no love without him:
when he died,
she folded up her love like summer clothes,
and buried it beneath a winter's snow.