Torte, with my father

The flourless cake, its heaviness derived of bittersweet.

Chocolate dense as darkness.

A china cup , a black pool swirled with an opaque liqueur.

The taste of each as contribution –

rancor offset by the affable.

I sit across the from the empty seat you once used.

My memories are heavy with the affection of your company

and controverted by your absence.

Each bite with a following sip a battle of emotions.

How it lingers, the memory of your sudden death

followed by the overtones of your prescience.

The night we talked late, and you said “the parent becomes the child”

Yet, I still want to ask you for advice and you never quite accepted mine.

The sound of my fork clinks and the resonant ding of the cup

as I set it down upon a saucer

all I hear in reply.

3 thoughts on “Torte, with my father

  1. Suzassippi

    I feel as if I am sitting at that table with you. I move between staring at the words, how they resonate and release, and then find myself lost in thought, memory, and just being. Clicking a “like” button does not–for me–capture that experience, nor convey it to you. This deserves a conveyance. Edward Albee once said he wanted people to leave the theatre after one of his plays thinking about more than where they parked the car. This is one of those “more than” moments.

    1. John S Post author

      Thank you very much for taking the time to share your feelings about this poem. As a writer, I am always wondering what people think about a piece. I’m glad that it resonated with you.


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