how do i tell my children that
this is their inheritance?
this knotted mess of anger
tangled up in bones,
no.
i can’t watch them saddled
with an age-old grail
nor with fifty pounds of history
strapped to their backs. but look
how well they carry in the midst of flames
sweeping up and
down.
the world stands trembling in the dark
and uneasily will wait, poor fool,
like the lot of us, for God to intervene.
i would will myself to be a wild dog
and teach my pups to claw and snarl,
puncture their wants with their canines and shake,
lick their aching wounds and dance,
and howl incessantly to that orb of midnight sun.
oh, my son, i’m not sure what will come of us.
what i can promise is all I have:
this roof, these words,
and, of course, my warmth
until i’m gone.
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