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THE DEATH OF THE FATHERS: 4. SANTA, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Father, / the santa claus suit
Subject(s): God; Religion; Theology


Father,
the Santa Claus suit
you bought from Wolff Fonding Theatrical Supplies
long before I was born
is dead.
The white beard you tricked me with
and the hair like Moses's,
the thick kinky wool
that used to whisper around my neck,
is dead.
Yes, my rosy Santa jingling
your brass cowbell.
With real soot on your nose
and snow (sometimes taken from the refrigerator)
on your big shoulders.
The room was like Florida.
You took so many oranges out of your sack
and scattered them around the room,
laughing that North Pole laugh all the while.
Mom kissed you
for her that was the height.
Mom could hug you
because she wasn't afraid.
The reindeer banged on the roof
(It was my Nana with a sledgehammer in the attic.
To my children it was my husband
breaking things with a crowbar).
The year I stopped believing in you
is the year you were drunk.
My drunken red man,
your voice thick as soap,
you were far from being San Nico
with that smell of daddy's cocktail.
I cried and ran out of the room
and you said, "Okay, thank God this is over!"
And so it was, until the grandchildren arrived.
Then I'll tie your pillows
at 5:00 AM in the morning of Christ
and I adjusted your beard,
all yellowish with time,
and put rouge on your cheeks
and Chalk White on your eyebrows.
We were conspirators,
secret actors,
and I kissed you
because I was tall enough.
But that already happened.
The era is ending
and there are big children hanging up their socks
and building a black monument to your memory.
And you, you vanish
like a lost signalman
moving his flashlight
before the train that no longer arrives





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