The Portrait

 My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.

She locked his name 
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.

When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand 
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.

In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

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