“On Similes,” a Poem by Miller Oberman
From the Collection “Impossible Things”
“On Similes”
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I have read my father’s book and, as I suspected, much of it is bad.
Especially the attempts to teach mindfulness, which,
given that once at a bakery he listened at length to a woman
from a mindfulness class he taught gush about its effectiveness
all the while standing on my mother’s foot, is no surprise to me.
Especially bad are the similes.
“Grief is like an unkempt beggar” (242).
“…sniff these last days of summer like a fine wine” (242).
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This compared to when he’s not trying so hard.
When, at 42, he has a heart attack and his father comes,
“he holds me as if I’m made of smoke” (109).
