After birth, fathers measure their sons’
cords, certain of their worth if, before
another man’s cold hands prey and work
against faith to sever its tension’s
length, the warmth of that crimson throat sends
electric portents of copper waves

          through the same pulsing veins as his, waves
of nude light, flashes of what pain sends,
what nourishes and destroys tensions
anticipation menaces sons
with, what serves its purpose, that which works
to perform life’s miracle before

          its defenders are born, cures before
its end’s warring invaders can work
their scourge’s pestilence in flesh sons
garb themselves in, that second skin waves
of sin wash and wear thin, those tensions
robbing ancestors of what they send—

          descendants to parent them—genes send
forth their ropes as if to bind, tensions
highest before knives divide those waves
of excitement into Hertz, before
hearts beat from within what lightens sons’
burdens on their forebears, living work

          for them who hear the songs sirens work
like sibyls crashing symbols, like sons
whose odysseys have begun before
dawn’s fingertips make roses run—send
into the sun your waxen wings waves
onto the shore deliver, tensions

          over when oceans break them, tensions
taking from you what time ransoms, waves
waiting inside become someone—send
out what you hold, let go, knowing work
to be done needs no one’s push before
accomplishing through their growth all sons

          need to pursue, the truth that love sends
          enough tools for jewellers to work
          dust into diamonds, breath into sons.