What To Do When Grief Has No Horizon
"Pray to your hands,"
the ancient voice answered.
the ancient voice answered.
My father could not have fathomed
its meaning, nor his.
its meaning, nor his.
But my son finds the words in a dream,
already his inheritance.
already his inheritance.
Which means three things:
His hands make a sandwich, substantial,
to feed his own mythic hunger.
to feed his own mythic hunger.
His hands write a story, illuminated,
where a monster becomes a beloved
(there are alternate endings)
and we get maps to unknown treasures,
to be revealed in the sequel.
where a monster becomes a beloved
(there are alternate endings)
and we get maps to unknown treasures,
to be revealed in the sequel.
And his hands, unmistakeable,
though larger than I remember,
leave traces of tenderness on my face.
though larger than I remember,
leave traces of tenderness on my face.
That way sons don't do anymore,
after a certain age.
after a certain age.
