Sometimes Life Can Be Satisfying

Meaning drips like a faucet

and moonlight sweats through curtains

on a cold spring night.

 

1.

There’s your setting.  So when my father

enters the kitchen to drink a glass of water,

to turn the faucet off, to close the window,

I’m not (too) surprised; he shows up in my poems

punctually, as a caretaker in the widest sense,

a character with a dramatic knack

for occupying twilit kitchens, lending them

mysterious beauty.  He stands there

in the fading light, sipping the glass of water.

 

Meanwhile, silence is filling the kitchen,

gathering and pooling like a body of water,

like a body in water, gathering handfuls of it.

 

(The silence is made of my father’s silence,

the silence of the house and the silence

of the spring night, all of which are not silent at all.)

 

2.

My father closes the window dutifully

(what does he care about silence?).

He turns off the faucet, the kitchen’s light;

and, as he clears his throat and sighs,

in that pause, it’s as if he is on stage.

We, the audience, aware that the play is ending,

hush; and my father, as if he can sense,

not the dramatic weight of the moment,

but the unnerving finality of another day ending,

closes his eyes, as if to more deeply

drink the night in.  We, who are somewhere

inside the poem, though invisible,

close our eyes, too. Now my father and all of us

are closing our eyes at the same time;

and in the finale of the poem, the point

where the music reaches

its most intensely satisfying conclusion,

we find ourselves completely

in our self-imposed darkness,

like a river growing progressively darker

in a night that goes on and on.

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2 comments
  1. I love how you break the “fourth wall” here. I can’t quite say why, but this resonates like a dramatic monologue, but only with 3rd person narration.

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