listening to jackal songs

if you've spoken to my father, know that he is dead
know that when the sun fails, the dead speak from their
glamours, and that fathers weave their jackal songs

about their sons, for he ever was a liar, was this idle
ravisher, who crushed my crocus just as i taught them
turandot's despair, and struck my tulip tree with his

cuckold's brow, felling peony and iris in a sweep, tossing
magpie and catbird from their stolen roosts, so came
this clamour into my harmony, this danger to my careful

plantings, so came his casual desolation where once we
sang g.sullivan with lollipops and tea, for he ever was a
jealous man, who sold my solitude for a mirror's fame

let us sit round his burial fete, together with a glee come
unexpected, and make a magick that will keep him bound.
to those who knew my father, know that he is dead