I didn't feel anything the day my father died.
We formed receiving lines,
ranks and files.
A funerary militia
that marched to the cemetery,
to bury him with the rain.
And I felt nothing.
I didn't feel anything when they fought with me.
The hand that bites the dog that bites the hand of
self harm.
Maybe it was the weakness of the attempt,
or the fact that I spent the night consoling them.
But I felt nothing.
I didn't feel anything with a gun to my head,
my life didn't flash before my eyes.
A drive through theater, punctuated by
blows to the head I didn't sense.
I went inside, tended to the wounds
I didn't know I had.
And I felt nothing.
I guess they say
in times of stress
you find out who
you really
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