The Unfather
by Charles Kesler


I have an Undaughter.
Her name is Hollie.
Her hair is blonde.
Her mother is my first love,
or maybe my second.
Maybe I have two Undaughters,
one from each blonde memory.
No, I can only handle one,
and only if she is my Undaughter
a wisp of a young woman
ghostishly appearing
when I have need.
I am an Unfather
but I crave real hugs
from young women
who are my Undaughter's age.
This is unsexual desire
redemptive for my scattered seed
in seven countries
a bountiful crop of babies
who will never know their father.
I am an Unfather
haunted by their hair hanging down
sheepishly revealing my nose,
but only God knows.






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