The Portrait

by
 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.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - The PortraitEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...


Top Stanley Kunitz Poems

Analysis and Comments on The Portrait

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem The Portrait here.