7 THE FIRST LETTER (EXCERPT) Poem by Lies Van Gasse

At the end of my own vigil,
as I gaze out mistily from the rings around my eyes
through the glass curtains I see
our postman coming on his heavy bike.

He brings a letter. ‘To Kaspar,' it says, ‘my son',
in neat letters that seem bloodier than the doll
that once arrived here and lay selflessly shivering
in the metal bed

Dear Kaspar, sweet boy,

This morning the sun rose on a world in which I had a son.
This evening, the stars stud a heavenly canopy under which
a father sleeps.

My way of telling this is clumsy, but my hand
draws the pen purposefully across the page.
This letter will be the first of many.

The letters are only the sealed heralds that will precede me
on my journey. For I am coming to you.

I write these words in a haze. I find them easier than the words
I will speak once I have found you. And before that time comes
I hope you will give me a sign.

I have spent the night in vigil, to make up for the nights I did not spend
by your little bed. Ah, your little bed, [illegible] are no longer
a child.

The letter goes in its envelope, my bags are packed. I leave with
longing and uncertainty.

Ever nearer to you,
With love,
Your father

Still, the effect is less pleasant. Hauser
seethes and walks out of the room. I go after him
screaming. Bury his being

in my arms. Not my hands
but sealed heralds
clasp him in my warmth.

And so that wakeful night my Kasper flees
the spineless wimp who calls himself his father.
And I understand that he wants to choose
what lies in front of him.

We take to our heels, lift everything over the
fence, and the hospital disappears.
Goodbye, father, leave your words in your letters,
don't come looking, come no closer.

Hauser wants no father.