your mother sees only the sun, blind to the coming of the moon, the night, and the hunt
and thinks she does a good job
accepting death yet breathing life to your brothers,
her two favorite imps, devilish and diabolical
that thrash and wreak, lash and leap,
and thus feed off of your father, who remains bare chested and spread eagle
on the palisades that protect your land regal
arraigned by the debts wrought by your thrills
and his past that peeks yonder oer the hills
punished to see in fastened stills
as at noon everyday the ruthless harpy
perches on his body, a hearty feast on a body hardly
as he embraces closer the day he can holster
his triple fanged blade of pure gold bolster
with your mother your brothers and your whole kin
engraved on it.
for he can no longer call himself
a man