The only one I really knew died
this morning, sleeping with
a cool frayed cloth upon
his aged crown, while
my mother sang
him to his rest
at home in
peace.
The one whose last name I bear
was an abusive drunk, who,
when I was seven, choked
on his own beer vomit,
and died unconscious,
on a dirty rug, in an
empty house,
alone.
The one I knew through a story
gave his 23 chromosomes
and slunk off like a cat –
Schrödinger's – both
dead and alive, but
no one can look
in a box that’s
not there.
None
were examples
to draw from for
my own sons. I know
I have to be awake and alive,
present to all the things they want
to share, and share alike with them my
love and excitement to be their dad, and be here.
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