Daniel B. Silver



I sing with my father’s voice
Somewhere between tenor and alto
In the space between old and young
And like a closed electrical loop it echoes
From my mouth to my vibrating eardrums

 I write with my father’s hand
Scribing his poetry and prose
Descriptions of his passion and his loss
And my blocks are copies of his
When my mind makes my hand stop

 I love with my father’s heart
From uncertainty to conviction
Then around the loop again
His failures and transgressions I emulate
When lovers turn into friends

 I draw these parallels with relative ease
I suppose it’s because I am male
And he, quite obviously, is too
But, Mom, you have to know I realize
That all I am I get from you