Poetry Thursday

Shifting the Sun

Diana Der-Hovanessian

When your father dies, say the Irish,

you lose your umbrella against bad weather.

May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

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When your father dies, say the Welsh,

you sink a foot deeper into the earth.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

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When your father dies, say the Canadians,

you run out of excuses. May you inherit

his sun, say the Armenians.

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When your father dies, say the French,

you become your own father.

May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

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When your father dies, say the Indians,

he comes back as the thunder.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

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When your father dies, say the Russians,

he takes your childhood with him.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

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When your father dies, say the English,

you join his club you vowed you wouldn't.

May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

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When your father dies, say the Armenians,

your sun shifts forever.

And you walk in his light.

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I am an Armenian - I offer this poem to my friends Sherry, Elaine, and Julie, who each lost their father this month. May your path be illuminated by the light of his memory.