Requiem for the New Year

By Mary Karr b. 1955 Mary Karr

On this first dark day of the year

my daddy was born lo

these eighty-six years ago who now

has not drawn breath or held

bodily mass for some ten years and still

I have not got used to it.

My mind can still form to that chair him

whom no chair holds.

Each year on this night on the brink

of new circumference I stand and gaze

towards him, while roads careen with drunks,

and my dad who drank himself

away cannot be found. Daddy, I’m halfway

to death myself. The millenium

hurtles towards me, and the boy I bore

who bears your fire in his limbs

follows in my wake. Why can you not be

reborn all tall to me? If I raise my arms

here in the blind dark, why can you not

reach down now to hoist me up?

This heavy carcass I derive from yours is

tutelage of love, and yet each year

though older another notch I still cannot stand

to reach you, or to emigrate

from the monolithic shadow you left.

Source: Viper Rum (1998)

Biography

Poet and memoirist Mary Karr was born in 1955 and raised in Texas. The author of several critically acclaimed books of poetry, including Abacus (1987; reprinted 2007), The Devil’s Tour (1993), Viper Rum (2001), and Sinners Welcome (2006) she is also the author of a trilogy of memoirs: The Liar’s Club (1995), Cherry (2001), and Lit (2009). Karr’s poetry and prose frequently include autobiographical elements, including her . . .

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