Requiem for Fathers Killed by COVID—for my father-in-law, Claudio Jorge Conti (1946-2020)
Fathers, taken inward, become language and melodies, their love an enduring heartbeat.
Read more →Fathers, taken inward, become language and melodies, their love an enduring heartbeat.
Our dying fathers, taken inward,
no longer embrace us cheek-to-cheek,
but become the tongue within our tongue:
gifting us the language to endure,
gifting us the melodies every father hums:
in the kitchen cooking dinner
or at his workbench well past midnight
to fix your bent bike wheel.
Our dying fathers, taken inward,
shed lab coats for cancer research,
shed dark suits with red ties,
shed blue coveralls streaked with grease;
the tv remote gone cold,
the bandoneón quiet in a corner,
half the chessboard left forever unmade.
And who will teach us now the names
of flowers when we go walking
through the woods? Who will guide us
to the river when summer heat
makes it hard to breathe?
The world’s orchards savaged by crows
gashing every peach, while, below,
in unmown grass, lie a basket,
two emptied gloves.
But why out of sight, out of mind?
To the grave we’ll go singing!
Our dying fathers taken inward,
close your eyes and hear them:
their mighty chorus always with us,
more intimate than your heartbeat:
I love you. I love you. I love you.