Saw your review in the NY Times.

"Identify don't compare" they tell us in 12-step programs. Right. My father wasn't murdered, he died of a cerebral hemhorrage caused by intense vaginal stimulation with a woman to whom he was not married. He was 54. I was 10. I became my father's son before I ever knew the true circumstances, especially the identity of the woman: a family friend. There is some degree of feeling haunted, or like living in a version of the House of Atreus where cannibalism and murder have been replaced by adultery.

But we survive. That is the miracle: the daily miracle or reprieve, if you like, from the hash or sour mash we made of our lives, from the haunted houses we lived in. They are still there. I am still looking for a way to shape my father not simply via poetry (yes I have, and published) but no via truth of how he lived and died and what it did to his wife and son. A tall order but doable.

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