Michael Zank

I think of you today, the night of Father’s Day,

Instead of, as usually, thinking of myself

As the father of my children.

My children!

Saying it is enough

To pull on the strings of my heart

As they say;

 

It is a physical feeling

One unlike others

 

I am almost certain

You felt it, too.

 

Certainly for your first-born

Son

Hans-Jürgen

Who was abandoned

Brought up by his Jehovah’s witnesses’ grandmother

In Berlin

 

He came to us,

Dazed, confused,

James Dean in his undershirt

Shaving in front of

The small mirror

Suspended on the wall

Of his basement room.

 

This became my domicile

Where the organ you bought

Replaced

What?

Love? Affection?

 

I kissed you

With the love of my mouth

You returned my warmth

With a stranger’s card

In your jacket pocket,

Found by my mother,

Your wife.

 

The gun

In the drawer of your bedstead

Fired blanks.

 

I appreciated the heavy burden

Of your life

Too late

to tell you.

 

I am puzzled

Now

But then, I thought

I knew.

 

But now,

I don’t.