The Portrait by Stanley Kunitz My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning. Art by Prudence Heward Recommended listening: Aa Jaao - Ankur Tewari
Born Again - Saint Motel
Links of the Day: Insect Microscopy Interview: Ankur Tewari Gods I've Seen Plastic Bottle Village The Darkness of Night Is this Photographer’s Creative Solace