poetryrepairs #222 16.03:032

LYN LIFSHIN : My Father, Those Days, How I Hated HowHe was Glued to the Radio
LYN LIFSHIN : I Don't Want to be My Father's Daughter

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LYN LIFSHIN
My Father, Those Days, How I Hated HowHe was Glued to the Radio

MY FATHER, THOSE DAYS, HOW I HATED HOW HE WAS GLUED TO THE RADIO his face a barometer, a ticker tape of what plunged or rose so much less real than a new powder pink lipstick, a glance from some boy. Not just the stock market, but him, a ghost at the kitchen table, quiet, withdrawn, bullied by my sister, oblivious to who I dated, what I wore. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to,” his furtive words to me the last time I saw him by chance at the Post Office. I think of him, he might as well have been tethered to the rise and fall of what he owned, more real to him than the lines on a cardiogram or the daughters he never noticed. as the stocks he my mother and she left me plunge, I reach for TV to check and then not wanting to be like him think, no, turn it off

poetryrepairs #222 16.03:032





LYN LIFSHIN 
I Don't Want to be My Father's Daughter

sullen, avoiding eyes at parties, avoiding a hug, a kiss, the chance to say love in any language. Silent at the farthest part of the table, rarely talking or spoken to, his main love: the stocks, the Dow Jones, the mistress he snuck money to. He was secretive, blushing— that market could have been his other bride, he wished would, after he died, circle air forever like a warm vagina, always welcoming him, giving him, he prayed, more than he wanted

poetryrepairs #222 16.03:032





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