Someday
I’ll have a son.
And in the ecstasy of washing my innocent in the light of his first morning, I anoint him to the dead.
My boy.
He would be dark haired like me and smart as can be.
I say yes to his night and to his morning.
I mourn him in the music of his little breathing.
I know his fate.
Hounds and guns.
The hunted in my holding.
Strong little boy
You will need to be.
But on that summer someday, he will be with me.
Both freshly born and freshly dead, my son.
All things of this earth will end, even what has not begun.
Someday
I will kiss his eyes while he screams into breath.
Kiss his blessed head upon blessed neck.
No, no
Not yet.