It didn’t rain during your funeral
but it should have. Ashes, dust,
what’s to keep them tamped and tethered if not the rain?
Blank eyes and slackened jaw, watching
whatever movie your mind has decided to roll.
Am I on the screen at all?
Although at first I’m sure you will be romanticized,
balance will occur, as you were not perfect.
Who among us is?
It’s easy to say now but I wish I knew you better.
What was it like to fight in a war, to kill? You never said.
What was it about mom that drew you in? I never asked.
I retreated where you raged, and now I’m accused
of burying my emotions. How many generations
must struggle before we get this right?
You gave the skills we needed but neglected
to supply instructions. We each chose an alternate tact.
We suffered to be different; improved, we thought.
Then why do I want to please you before I let you go?
Shut up, shut up I screamed from the safety of my room.
But all my yelling was silent, or at a pitch you couldn’t hear.
David Mihalyov lives outside of Rochester, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and two dogs. His poems have appeared in several journals, including Concho River Review, Free State Review, and Naugatuck River Review. He’s still waiting for the Chicago Cubs to win the World Series.