04-18-2011, 01:27 AM
The only thing about this poem I don't like is the repetition of "my tongue" at the end, which I think is slightly corny. This is such a haunted poem, bristling with bad feeling and implying the emaciation of the father without ever being grotesque. It also avoids self-pity, which is the biggest trap of a confessional poem like this. That said, I of course can't be sure if it's strictly confessional, but it's about a painful experience told in the first person, so the trap is still set, and you avoid it with skill. An excellent poem.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe