Eclipsed Son


I know your stares are those my glance
throws down its brow for, crestfallen
toward my heart’s prey this lonely
hunter goes without his bow, grown

fonder for having, by his own
light sacrificed, shown how to dance
in shadows two statues whose hands
of stone silenced breath to glass blown,

in its pinkening, paints that man’s
lips the taste of my flesh, distant
though it is, nearer temptations
than his kiss chance this tongue only

     holding out for those opinions
          of him his very family


hangs over his head, troubled ones
too often to my fold drawn, arms
opening to lies told want each
broken son to be held in lone

moments when being wanted, no
matter the consequence, transcends
damage’s demands, discretion’s
irrelevance affections thrown

into this mythic baggage’s
allegèd mélange of tragic
and insurmountable chaos
my desire for his my love’s heat

     vanquishes, that to brilliance
          resilient cinders bide sought, seek


soft fires when sitting, impatience
beginning to court scorch, kindles
torches of eyes twinned, performs these
operations onto which shone

some equation’s hope of being
solved long ago when, innocence
not so much then or now given,
was oblivious to them shown

chance after chance to see, redempts
the darkness its pain when flames take
the places of exes, lost ends
loosed to the tide of enemy

     parents as much quenched loves and friends
          thirsting again, as ghosts always


do, to drain those none understands,
their children, their brethren, kindred
dispirited for, in homes we
forego, our shades’ different bones,

indifference of his folks to
that which nature never did once
oppose, this kaleidoscopic
eruption of colour, Pantone

code for one dude’s want of one’s pants
down another’s neck to relieve
his own shallowed breath of romance
choked nearly to death, dangled beads

     of sweated stress, in secret plans
          for which no need exists, perceived


not as vulgar or obscene threats,
but what wealth our concealed love bleeds,
this pride in our Selves every
other kid from his house gets, prone,

instead, to having to hide its
influence lest we might agree,
gods forbid, and accept, progress,
perhaps, even live without one

regret like a millstone’s burdens
growing as we go from bottom
to up to sinking depression’s
bottomless pit, yes, then, let me

     love him now as I must, best, since
          no one else has, effortlessly.