Tuesday, September 02, 2008

David Kherdian: Melkon

Father I have your rug.
I sit on it now -- not as you
did, but on a chair before
a table, and write.

It is all that is left of
Adana, of us, of what we
share in this life, in
your death.

In my nomad head I carry all
the things of my life,
determined by memory and love.
And on certain distant nights,
I take them one by one.
And count.
And place them on your rug.

This poem has appeared in Ararat, Winter 1985, 25th Anniversary volume.

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