To a Father, Never Known
By Louis Faber
July 15, 2023
July 15, 2023
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You were to be my prophet
and you played Jonah one morning by clutching your chest at the sink and dropping to the floor, dead. You left me to wander through Ninevah, a beggar twice robbed of origin ground pulled from beneath my feet. Why did you flee your task the one for which you were anointed. Couldn’t you see our home laid ruin consumed by its own wrath, nothing to heed, no voice to which to turn. You left me to find my own shade certain the worm would arrive and leave me in the midday sun. All you left were the words of others, a momentary Moses, who, facing the waters fled deep into the desert, leaving us anchored to the shore, then to wander one lost, two in endless search. Each year we recall your failure though it grows increasingly dim, faceless, a play whose protagonist will not exit the wings. Why did you hide in the belly of the beast. Why, when dry land was offered, did you settle deeper into Sheol’s bowels. Was the task so hard you had to turn away was I so threatening, you saw no option preferring the sea to treading with me through the wilderness. |
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Louis Faber is a poet living in Florida. His work has appeared widely in the U.S., Europe and Asia, including in Glimpse, South Carolina Review, Rattle, Pearl, Dreich (Scotland), Alchemy Stone (U.K.), Flora Fiction, Defenestration, Constellations, Jimson Weed and Atlanta Review, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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