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July 04, 2022

His Daughter

By Ann Christine Tabaka

His Daughter

He left behind his curse,
it followed him to the end.
Blood cannot be divided,
cannot be distilled.
I am my father's daughter

Coal black eyes stare back,
a violent storm that would not die.
Time does not forget
a hand raised against the past.

We hid from each other's sins.
There were not enough tears
to make things work,
nor to make amends.

You were your father,
I never knew.
I became you,
as did my son.

No one understands
how blood carries memory,
and thus bond our fate.
The curse lives in me.
I am my father's daughter.






Article © Ann Christine Tabaka. All rights reserved.
Published on 2019-11-18
1 Reader Comments
Harris
11/22/2019
09:58:43 AM
Very concrete and clear, the best kind of poem, that gives a haunting and poignant image from a single theme.
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