I’ve never stopped (or a long, slow suicide)

I’ve never stopped
Being disappointed
I am not my father.

I am not my hero.
And I will never be
What he was to me.

I am not larger than
Life. Not invincible. Not
Perfect. Or perfectly noble.

I am not dead
Before my child knows I
Am not perfect.

I will never be anyone’s
Perfect ideal, never
Their light house.

I will never know what
It is like to have my
Beloved child mourn me always.

Never know the grace
Of my daughter’s selective,
Revisionist history of me.

Every flaw, every failure
Is all I can see of the
Me that is not him.

I have written backward on
My forehead in permanent marker:
“Not good enough”.

Everyone else sees a
Mysterious and lovely
Birthmark. But I know.

It is my reminder to myself
That I am not him.
And never will be. Ever.

I could try harder.
Start drinking more and
Never talk about my pain.

I could find some children to leave behind,
Young, hopeless, at the mercy of
A gray world, a broken mother.

Filled with my idealism and
None of my strength or
Knowledge or courage.

No idea how to be what I was.
No idea how not to be what I was.
No idea how to be.

Yah, I could do that.
But it will never be good enough.
Because.

Because to be tragically heroic,
You have to be seen by
Someone not you.

So, here is what I really want.
I want to save one life worth the saving,
Correct one horrible injustice while there is time,
Write one poem that truly moves one soul,
Love well one true and worthy woman,
Inspire one act of mercy and grace,
And do it all in front of one innocent witness.

Then, perhaps, I will forgive myself
For living. For going on
Without him.

-- 04/26/2007