Papa

Papa

I wanted to write a poem about you,
but all that came out
was a page of cliches
about death

and greatness.

I failed as a poet.

Failed to realize
there are some things
which can't be written,

can't be expressed.  Some pains
that language doesn't know,
that maybe
haven't been given a name
because we can't understand them, or because

we fear them.

So I stopped writing.

Instead I stood outside
in the cold
and screamed at God
while my fingers got numb.

I thought of you,
mocked by your oxygen tank,
forced to breathe from a little yellow cylinder,

and I screamed again

and again

and again.

Wordless, hopeless screams
dissipated in the air
like the breath-steam leaving my mouth,

like the oxygen leaving your tank,

like the tears leaving the eyes
of everyone who ever loved you,

and I didn't have to wonder
what it's like
when a great man dies.