A Poem
Dear Franz,
I read that letter to your father.
If you knew how this private document
Once handed in secret to your mother,
Only to be returned to you, undelivered,
Would travel through time,
to appear on a screen of glass
as amusement for some stranger…
You might have
strangled Mr. Brod.
But then,
I hope you would learn
how the poignancy of your words,
the bravery and the barbs of them,
landed directly in my chest.
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Your suffering informs my
Own love for my children.
It helps me be bolder,
more reckless with my affection.
Because, I will be damned
If I die without them knowing
That I deliriously, unconditionally,
And with unabashed bias,
Know them to be
The most delightful people
Who ever walked on this earth.
That by delightful, I mean that
even when they whine,
fight or make
an impolite noise —
— Their very existence
and their spirit of resistance
is delicious.
Even if that’s
not…
the sentiment
I conveyed at the time…
Franz,
I wish you had been held
by your father
as you needed to be.
I will make sure
my children are held
by theirs.
