The body is mortal. Love is ongoing...
My father crumbles and I cannot bare to watch.
I whisper in shame of mortality – though he
is mostly deaf... But i'd never dare shout at my own father -
Old phones don't heal like young bones, my mother states plainly -
The doctors warned him his hand would go stiff in the winter...
the handy man without a hand...
...Age reminds me to resent time...
I know he thinks I should be stronger when my eyes well up
at the sight of a train coming to take me away again...
But what has the world rewarded him for his loyalty to living? -
An office in which to feed the economy until his bones are broken
(Oh joy! The future looks so bright for us all!)
As long as there is a wheel for us to spin whilst being fed through a straw by an assertive psychopath with connections to wall street.
When did humans accept this imaginary destiny en masse?
But then, the earth was once flat, and witches could be drowned into confession.
This is for the snap shots of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers,
lining up at concession stands, rubbing their hands to ward off the cold,
because age is roof-less and it is always winter in this movie theatre -
And the snacks here are overpriced! And you are always older than you once were,
and younger than you wish to be...
You see... grace is oddly placed – and ive got lines up on my face
that could be traced to make a shape of wild distaste
and then replaced.
And in my haste to make some sort of significant mark upon this place,
I am a waste, and in this case, which sets the pace in this race,
I feel displaced and erased – I'm always breaking what I chase...
In this state, I swallow grace, and blood is all I taste.
...Now...
My father shugs indifferently at some of these things –
as if visits to the doctor are the habits of the young.
And this hand will do him til the end.
Son, he says, Why bother being anxious about the end?
The body is mortal. Love is ongoing.
And I love you enough to last,
And you love me enough, that I will last forever.
