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Umbilical
"But for thy prompting never had the seer ascribed to me the death of Laius."
Sophocles - Oedipus Rex Your bleeding chord, so ugly. Doctor says
to cut it free from baby. Gush of black
disgusting, wrapped around contempt. So tight,
your eyes refuse to open.
Light, don't help
him see this world not worth a glimpse. He knows
a life of floating peace, not harshness borne
upon an eye reproachful. Thoughts like mine
so dark, disturb no one here. People care
about their apathy more than this child.
Why love this replacement?
His eyes opened,
resigned to fate, my boy begins to cry ...
for warmth, for love, for mother's milk, but not
for father. Never feeling whole again
until he stakes fertile grounds of his own.
The doctor says, "Congratulations Dad!"
How strange to think myself a parent.
Son,
I smell your sacred, saccharine breath against
her breast that once was mine. Now impotent,
I'm made voyeur to bonds of yours and hers.
My seed is planted, gardens grow without
my care. She weeds and prunes and shines. The shade
is lonely here.
I wonder Dad, are men
replaced vines for women to tend? Our roots
so firmly trenched in wombs, umbilicals
are hard to cut. This fate I wished to spare
him. Thoughts like mine not found before harvest
can haunt a man; I know you had your doubts.
Your fertile fields were plowed by hands not yours,
and still you loved me, always cutting free
my bonds. I couldn't understand then. Now
I see your sacrifice: to tend unseen,
to nurture our time with quiet dissent.
I want more for him.
Son, I hope you break
this yoke and help me stand in light with you.
copyright © 2002 andrewjthomas
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