This body at the mouth of a bloom
entered its tomorrow to make a river
out my past. I’m towelled in the karst
of my father’s efforts at success, the
stumble he sat inside to sun a path
for his seeds —a seedsman with socks
of thorns; a lost harvester in the dust
of droughts— I saw his loneliness and
it was not attractive. There was a boy
thriving on his wound, and a bristled
song is how he goes well into the nails
of nights, scaling as he dreams, sleeping
as he peels, unlearning a shell of life.
But I do not know how to go
from my wake. I’m not a boy anymore,
and I’m terrified of making mistakes.
How underreckoning is it that age makes
the difference in the pricing of life?
If this discussion is not a black market
I’d have shown you how my father’s
sigh is heavier than mine, how his laugh
has more colours that the world can contain.
It’s a thing of age & graves. I’m at the juncture
of being a father too, so I recognise this anxiety.
Maybe one day, there will be dreams I can’t hold
back from sinking, sinking without remorse.