This poetry chapbook is centered on depression in aging adult. My father's
trigger was my mother's passing, he could not lift himself from grieving.....
Share your thoughts about the poems...
Flame
The emptiness without mother flourished
father’s suppressed disappointments; he wanted
to be a published author, member of the soprano
fan club, biblical and historical story teller. . .
“You understand, but are not around to comfort,”
so says he who always argues with himself and speaks
to voices below his hearing. I don’t want to judge your
thoughts, a tiny vial of happiness could stimulate joy.
Wiping my eyes with the back of my hands, a flame
burns through me, make me want to punch a wall
while embracing mother’s photo in my arms.
by Michal Mahgerefteh
Isolation
This dining room was the busiest area in my parents’ home,
fresh food prepared daily in case visitors stop by after work;
“The hungry and curious taking advantage of her weakness,”
father complained about mother who needed the company
especially after intense chemo and radiation treatments.
I sneak a look at father, solid like iron, I avert my eyes
to the entry door; ceramic garlic and metal horseshoe charms
fixed around the frame, “Close to thirty-years keeping Jinn
spirits from our bodies,” he said. They didn’t help her. . .
cultural superstition bullshit…I expect more from you, father.
The pain of knowing how unnoticed he was as a caregiver
drew him to the unseen God, dominating his thoughts, not
people; complaining about the dirty condition of his house,
personal hygiene, eating habits. “I don’t open the door…”
by Michal Mahgerefteh
Pained
Today the horizon glows like a kaleidoscope,
sound of thunder cooling the air. I’m hungry…
“You want to eat…make it yourself.” Such a pain.
I pace between rooms, searching for vegetables
kept in wire baskets, or maybe in a burlap bag
hanging on the clothing lines, Where are they?
Watching me like I was a thief about to steal
precious gems, My allowance pays your bills,
do I need to remind you… by the window ripped
tomatoes on wilted stem, “Give them life. . . ”
he urges, Mint and cilantro plants also dried
and the green and red jalapenos are dying…
father doesn’t know the meaning of nourish—
a string of hours together is more than I hoped
without flawless logic, he tilted his head in a slight
bow, pained, “You are my favorite Lilith,
not easily dominated by family and culture.”
by Michal Mahgerefteh