The Portrait

    My mother never forgave my father

    for killing¹ himself，

    especially at such an awkward time

    and in a public park，

    that spring

    when I was waiting to be born.

    She locked his name

    in her deepest cabinet

    and would not let him out，

    though I could hear him thumping².

    When I came down from the attic³

    with the pastel portrait in my hand

    of a long-lipped stranger

    with a brave moustache

    and deep brown level eyes，

    she ripped it into shreds⁴

    without a single word

    and slapped me hard.

    In my sixty-fourth year

    I can feel my cheek

    still burning.