Little Father

I buried my father

in the sky.

Since then, the birds

clean and comb him every morning   

and pull the blanket up to his chin   

every night.

I buried my father underground.   

Since then, my ladders

only climb down,

and all the earth has become a house   

whose rooms are the hours, whose doors   

stand open at evening, receiving   

guest after guest.

Sometimes I see past them

to the tables spread for a wedding feast.

I buried my father in my heart.

Now he grows in me, my strange son,   

my little root who won’t drink milk,   

little pale foot sunk in unheard-of night,   

little clock spring newly wet

in the fire, little grape, parent to the future   

wine, a son the fruit of his own son,   

little father I ransom with my life.

 

--Li-Young Lee