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When I was born the blood of my mother glued me into your hands
and the swirl of your fingerprints became our bloom and thorny maze
for two days I was clay in your hands and each tear shaped us as one
your fucked-up lungs were my lullaby and I heard Indians wail in you.
Sons know early that the colour of their father’s eyes are our first sky
If you look closely those black pupils are rosary beads in a splash of thorns
Sons know early how to sense if their makers were made for them
I was lucky because he always pressed me into his bones like a thistle into chapters.
When my grandfather was born, moon pulled tide back so far that a whale was marooned.
gulls turned it white and waited for the breaths to pass like a still brook.
I like to think inside the sea was a whale chorus willing it back
I like to think that my grandfather grew poison to protect us.
Sons know too late that they’re made by everything which unmade their father.
A mother will look back on a journey and know footprints are maps and treasures,
She will carry her children through fog and find her way to a new clearing,
The father and son remain lost in each other and yet. these are the very instructions home.
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Peace Poet Antony Owen 