By Audre Lorde

I have not ever seen my father’s grave.

Not that his judgment eyes
have been forgotten
nor his great hands’ print
on our evening doorknobs
            one half turn each night
            and he would come
            drabbled with the world’s business   
            massive and silent
            as the whole day’s wish   
            ready to redefine
            each of our shapes
but now the evening doorknobs   
wait    and do not recognize us   
as we pass.

Each week a different woman   
regular as his one quick glass
each evening
pulls up the grass his stillness grows   
calling it weed.
Each week    a different woman   
has my mother’s face
and he
who time has    changeless
must be amazed
who knew and loved
but one.

My father died in silence   
loving creation
and well-defined response   
he lived    still judgments   
on familiar things
and died    knowing
a January 15th that year me.

Lest I go into dust
I have not ever seen my father’s grave.

• Living
• Relationships

Poet Bio

The impassioned poetry of Audre Lorde grew out of her keen sense of injustice—racial as well as gender—and a strong desire to break through silence and politeness to unafraid illumination. Born in New York City to West Indian parents, she turned in her later work to African sources, emphasizing its oral roots and finding a model in the matriarchies of that continent for her emergent lesbian and communal consciousness. See More By This Poet

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