Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Larceny and Fatherhood

Larceny and Fatherhood 

The greatest theft in all of this
Has been my desire to indulge in being a father  

At seven I became an older brother
At first interaction I recall being nervous,
Tentative to touch such a small being
Questioning my roll, normal stuff 

Within months I was affirmed to be as my older brother was not for me,
My younger sibling’s compatriot, confidant, his Virgil
I relished the subtle flavors of hugs, presence and
Nerf army campsite woods exploration,  

Sharing pizzas on Friday nights as I was motioning
To junior to senior high school with no place else to be
The transference between generosities became fluid
I was a baby sitter for my mother’s friend’s children, despite my gender 

I was a swim team coach of swimmers four to eighteen
I even created a second segregated practice to assist the younglings
This was charted data, empirical the kind predicting the outcome
Of a man’s entry into fatherhood as a triumphant undertaking  

With the credence and patience of one who understood the minds of the young
So it is with greatest extorted horror I find the frame of fatherhood
My former wife hammered around me
To show me as repugnant, unqualified and all together damaging
To the growth of our only daughter 

I sat soaking in the brine of distended entrails, gouged on the oak floor
Of a home we built, evacuated of feminine inhabitants, a ghost town
With the pictures of a father on the wall, yet howls a cacophony
Of an empty laundry machine, bedrooms cackling like needle-dick whispers 

Blood was thicker like Sunday morning pancake batter
The cartoons, the playroom floor, tiny trains and stuffed animal theater audiences
Sat with crusted irises as if staring at the wall like into the sun
Burnt from waiting for a sock puppet showcase that will never begin again 

All these childhood indulgences of a father’s hand have become machinations
Of a departed hag scoffing that the core of sunlight stitched into every smile
Was invalid, a surfeit of lies from the impetus, spoiled-worm yarn
For a pink-blanky quilt, handed to and spilt with the slobber of all these house-screams 

I want to enjoy the idea of being a father; I want to state uninteruppted status
I want to see the idea of having other children as possible
In place of water boarding, electric castration or a path to despair
Because you see, that is what having a child did to me  

My daughter made me vulnerable to an infinite regard
As if my heart was gone into her heart from gestation
The limits of my safeguard were absolute in intent and
The preponderance of my being in action  

This weight hung inside like a locket held like a collar of musts
Latched to my being in the curvature of my daughter’s smile
Sweet innocent, loving, wonderland with the spectrum of youth set to explode
Through years, knowing her mother was obstructing my vision  

And more over the hue of refractions my humanity may offer her
Over the time that is now spilt like sand of a cracked hourglass, scattered

The courtroom, the unrequited correspondence, the blank expression
To my implored commitment to save the terrorist form her own bomb
The greatest absence is that I have no trust
All I feel are the dangers like a grassland of tigresses lurking behind crucifixes  

I have murdered, I have sinned, I have emptied the luggage
And set it asunder like flotsam at a rural train station with no ticket to Chicago
No pickup, no airplanes, no passport, no taxi’s just
Breakfast, commute, computer desk, commute, dinner, insomnia 

Honestly I need to be told
I am a good father, I am a good man, I am valued for my input
From someone, from somewhere; however cheesy, weak, futile or feckless
I want that, I hunger, the tears are no water  

I isolate with a compulsion to not talk, to not see, to not feel, to not breathe
I would rather sequester, than inject energy into dust roads
I wish I could meet someone, somewhere
I wish I could be someone, somewhere  

A different time, a different place, another love, another taste
The hemlock and wine are on the table, rouge in doppelganger glasses
Will I ever choose to drink?

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