When I whistle, sometimes,
soft and high from the front of my mouth
with a tight vibrato, I catch
a hint of my father's sweetness.
The sounds were better, he said,
before he lost that tooth,
but I've heard no one, then or since,
whose whistle was so warm,
so free from shrillness.
My dad was a mostly gentle man
who still admired certain zealots (hence
my name, O Savonarola's mother).
We grow more different, it seems,
with the passing days. Doubly dear,
then, those few notes I carry
between teeth and tongue.
soft and high from the front of my mouth
with a tight vibrato, I catch
a hint of my father's sweetness.
The sounds were better, he said,
before he lost that tooth,
but I've heard no one, then or since,
whose whistle was so warm,
so free from shrillness.
My dad was a mostly gentle man
who still admired certain zealots (hence
my name, O Savonarola's mother).
We grow more different, it seems,
with the passing days. Doubly dear,
then, those few notes I carry
between teeth and tongue.
I love the poems you write about your dad. Poignant, lovely, thoughtful. Thank you for sharing your memories.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Beth! I think I have at least a half dozen of them, now. I'm really, really glad to be able to put some of these things into words.
DeleteQuite beautiful, this poem! (And now I have to read up a little more on Savonarola!)
ReplyDeleteThank you! I don't know that much about Savonarola, myself. I have his biography that Dad was reading when he and Mom were expecting me, so I really ought to read that.
Delete