ChrisA

My Image

The child narcissism in my father’s eyes,
the voice listened to by Jesuit priests,
his infant body swaddled in a terry cloth towel,
cradled lovingly in the arms of an ageless nurse,
the spectacle of my father’s overcoat,
his enthusiastic pose (the pose I am holding now),
the heart that is everywhere, before I arrive and
after I depart. Through the world I wear his five-petalled suit,
integrity, self-love, dignity, resolve, courage,
our Ideas share the same source of divinity as
great men. But something lacking in us both,
we each have lost our mothers, and having lost them,
we walk through the city on wintry nights, blissfully cold
we walk through the surface of the snow
in glittering darkness, in absences –
among centipedes of people carrying shopping bags for relatives;
we walk under canopies of Christmas lights.

erikestabrook

mna this is good writing Chris really good, hope you stop by i won't let this poem go unnoticed, it is superb