Ode To Her Poem by Fred Babbin

Ode to Her

The white bones
of my father
are so white,
as though they come
from the white sands of Santa Fe
And why do I think of him?
Because I am old
and can only think of the past
with Matisse, O'Keeffe, Modi-
gliani,
the West bank, the Left Bank -
Did you ever get there?

But do not write in sorrow,
Do not write on the dead
they do not exist
they will not exist

with one foot in the grave
which will not touch me
because I live in spite
of my wishes

this is not love but jealousy
jealousy from the limbic system
bottle it
sell it
it tastes so bitter
I can sleep on it
the old bones
don't let me move