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A Bell Jar

As most of my poems, this is actually untitled (number 10), but I always feel silly titling them as numbers on here, so I’m calling it A Bell Jar (anyone else getting the book inspired connotation?)
This was an odd response to my father’s first poem since his stroke.

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A Bell Jar

where is he?
where is he?
i’m looking at this empty jar, closed off.
Sealed more tightly than I ever before percieve.
Its cold mist is conceleing something cold and protected.
Old secrets now hidden from even its own contents.
Why didn’t i ever seek out its thoughts before?
Before it was too late.
Too small, too vulnerable.
Too small for me to hold and behold.
It had wisdom I never even encountered in life,
in nature.
In god. It had words and rhyme I’ll never even taste.
It was a beautful dove, built to soar above the cloud,
the smoke of engines and man’s machines,
it had chains keeping it here, awaye from the bliss it deserved.
A chain of paternal duety.
A chain of a body that had seen more obsceneities it ever exposed me to.
A chain of love, nesting it in the rotten oak of society.
Maybe now, free from responsibility.
Free from whim, of structured thought.
Free from a body it can control.
Free from my love, from my need to have him path my way.
Maybe he was just too big for this world.
Maybe I wasn’t worthy to own it, conceal it.
Maybe now as this bell jar, it can be without the haunghting reminders that

he was too perfect for this fractured world.


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