I feel like Nietzsche's Bridge,
a transition for my child
to be the man I never could.
He is so gracious there crawling through black tunnels,
dampened with squid ink
dodging the dirt and grime that I left behind.
He is already smarter than me, I think.

Could it be that he is meant to love
all the world I left unloved and untraced?
Finding allusion where I create bitterness, and hate.

I bought so many toys,
and he swallowed so many parts
to make room for my affection.
He wants me to be there, and I am
in corporeal spirit and empty words.
I might say 'you're a good boy'
or
'congratulations on your drawing'
and he'll spit
'thanks daddy' and look dead with flies stabbing at his apple.

It was of me, of course, that he drew.
My head covered with nappies, my arms in yellow and blue.
No torso a blob, a perfect circle, whole,
too naked for the choir to sing.
It was the most handsomest I ever looked,
no Elizabeth Armada painting could be more true.

Oh beautiful Lazarus,
how I wish you could
emancipate me
from this gluttonous guilt.
I dream of you child.
I'm choking on this quilt.
Come back son.
Come back.

LONG TO REIGN OVER US
GOD SAVE OUR QUEEN

He's 26 now, unemployed, reading about books.