FALL
2007
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FALL 2007
Tryfon Tolides |
MY FATHER IS AT A KIND OF BUS STATION |
My father is at a kind of bus station
outside, mostly men, moving, not moving,
wearing early 1900?s mustaches, dark thick coats,
as in black and white immigrant documentaries
where people hold parcels and stand
very close to their unknown lives. He calls
after a few of the men using names of men
from our village who are not there,
so the men he calls do not respond. I have
the sense my father knows this but keeps calling
anyway, perhaps to give the impression of being
consumed in something, like crazy
people in the streets gesturing, talking to others
who we cannot see, or people pretending
to be dead so as not to be shot when the soldiers
come, or they do anything the soldiers say
so as not to be shot. Giving an impression
is survival. I am off on the side
of a hill in our village, as if I?ve slipped through
a pasture gate to where I cannot be seen,
but I see in toward the station. I see my brother
walking down the hall inside our house,
saying something to me, disturbing the quiet.
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TRYFON TOLIDES was born in Korifi Voiou, Greece. He has completed a BFA in Creative Writing at the University of Maine, and an MFA at Syracuse University. He has received a Reynolds Scholarship, the 2004 Foley Poetry Prize, and his manuscript, An Almost Pure Empty Walking, a 2005 National Poetry Series selection, was published by Penguin in July 2006. His work has appeared in America, Atlanta Review, Mondo Greco, Poetry Daily, Worcester Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Farmington, Connecticut.
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