Isidore

I believe it is enough. Seven years,

rains dripped on that same spot.

And here I remember, that at home,

on his own in the dark like a saint,

he held his head in his hands,

and that it was fortune,

some seven years hole

that pains me to know.

Once was told that the body gets replaced

every seven years; the cells double over,

the heart sees itself out,

and I am too young to die for the third time,

when I have seen my father cry but the once,

from a hole with the birds in the ceiling,

and that it was fortune

that seven year hole

that pains me

and rains me

to know.

As seen in: https://www.palavermag.com/spring-2021-poetry-isidore