To My Dead Father

by Frank O Hara

Frank O'Hara

Don't call to me father.
wherever you are I'm
still your little son
running through the dark.
I couldn't do what you say.
even if I could hear
your roses no longer grow
My heart's black as their
bed their dainty thorns
have become my face's
troublesome stubble
you must not think of flowers
And do not frighten my
blue eyes with hazel flecks
or thicken my lips when
I face my mirror don't ask
that I be other than your
strange son understanding
minor miracles not death
father I am alive! father
forgive the roses and me.

Last updated June 24, 2015