Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Alchemical Passes For Father and Son
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball, a mitt, hard rules of the game,
undo all lust for dark heaven shunning shining girls.
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows.
A softball between
the eyes guides.
Before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.
I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always
unites father/son -
gone to wildness
slow embrace of
entangling legs and
light between the
And shadows shall win the day.
and comets rare
allowed to some
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for home
inheriting circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)
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