The Fatherlands

photo of person holding his baby



“Children are educated by what the grown-up is and not by his talk.”

Carl Jung


There are only moments that feel like Father and son

for us it was a solitary swan pinching the edges of pond like silk

if a swan sings then it’s dying, her neck scythes in sky on still water.


Swans love for life you said, they stroke the water and God falls asleep.

Dragonflies drop like beads of paint from Chagall in glorious fury,

my Father and I are not talking, we are communicating perfectly.


One day I will be going about my day and all this will cease to be.

A rush of blood will chink from my spine like stolen rubies &

someone will say the words you are gone and I’ll thaw out.


Find a place and name it the Fatherlands where you were one,

let the first ocean that pulled your ankles take you back –

when your Father was Atlas and he carried you on shoulders.


In the Fatherlands I will shave your face so gently to the sound of waves,

we’ll remember the clouds and dusk from shaving foam in water.

You will trust me around your throat with a blade, and I inevitably will cut you.

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