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
prescriptions
are;
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.
