William S. Burroughs, my father
Harry Crews, my father
Charles Bukowski, my father
Sylvia Plath, my mother
Anne Sexton, my mother
Anais Nin, my teacher
Teaching me
All the understanding of a woman
in love
A woman in lust
These writers and many more were
the family who never changed their opinions
They were friends to me without
conditions
They never left when times grew
hard
Never needed more than their
books to be read
Their stories to be told
My literary family
With their worn-out covers and
tattered pages
Still sit on my shelf
Waiting to whisk me away with
words of truth
Of betrayal
Of redemption
Of love, or the lack there of
Books
What a wonderful world to be lost
in
My family’s all gone now
But their footprints of words I
still follow
Just a closed cover away
This poem is from my book : Petals Falling
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