| Sandy McKinney |
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| Letter To His Father When I came back to help you fit the headstone on our son's grave, some hippie artist had done your portrait, and I saw he'd captured just that look of ravaged wisdom on a satyr's face some madness in me kept me lusting after even when I knew that you were only a fascinating hoax, the standard drunk and bardic Irish son-of-a-bitch. The years, the years, my God, I let you cast me as the Wicked Witch. I stood there studying that pastel face I couldn't bruise, I couldn't even hate because of who was watching from the sad, half-mocking eyes. I couldn't say it then, but I can say it now. Why can't we trade and he be here again and you dead. |
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