Your dark suit
pressed like a map,
no one can tell you've been liberated
from catacomb prisons of revolution.

You sit with a column in your spine
your face folded
in a general's frown,
the monument you always were,
in half a photograph.

I burned Mother's half
and kissed the ashes
to vanish the shackles binding me.

Oh, father
it's been nine years
since you left me.
Your boy is lost
in the shadows of his hero.
Why don't I dream of you?
Why didn't I ever?

You're so still on my book case.
I can tell it's not you.
You were always tinkering
with cars and leaky boats,
or building someone's character.

Can I be a boy again?
Can I come inside?
Will you hold me?