for my stepfather, Peter
I screamed it:
at the top of my lungs,
facing the Mediterranean Sea,
and looking down at the subway tracks,
where broken memories dream.
I screamed it loud, at night,
in bed when I here you approaching,
and in the daytime too,
when no-one knows.
I screamed at the dead-lit stars,
at the crucifix.
I screamed it to the Lord Buddha
and to Jesus our Saviour
I screamed it at the reflection
in the fridge where the
at the empty medicine bottles
and the O2 tank
I screamed it at these empty hands
that took your cane,
and at those that laid you to rest
on the operating tables.
I screamed and got the echo back,
the foreclosure of an unrequited prayer.