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My Grandfather
Papa
I wanted to write a poem about you,
but all that came out
was a page
of cliches
about death
and greatness.
I failed as a poet.
Failed to realize
there are some things
which can't be written, can't
be expressed.
Some pains
that language doesn't know,
that maybe
haven't been given a name
because we can't understand them
or because
we fear them.
So I stopped writing.
Instead I stood outside
in the cold
and screamed at God
while my fingers got numb.
I thought of you
mocked by your oxygen tank,
forced to breathe from a little yellow cylinder,
and I screamed again
and again
and again.
Wordless, hopeless screams
dissipated in the air
like the breath-steam
leaving my mouth,
like the oxygen
leaving your tank,
like the tears
leaving the eyes
of everyone who ever loved you,
and I didn't have to wonder
what it's like
when a great man dies.
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