Notes to the son 4

(Worse still I didn’t name him)

I forgot he was there
in the room with the door ajar.
Walking through the corridor
He caught me unaware

He ran from the fortress
that he’d made with his mother
Stopped by me and slowly recovered
His apparent happiness.

“Where have you been?”
He asks, then stares.
“Oh how unfair”, I think
Pitying myself in the affair.

He is the son I can’t hug
Stringing me up like a hangman
on the noose of my own longing
we stand and know each other
eye’s locked till he understands
till we both understand
It hurts to say goodbye.

(worse still I couldn’t name him,
fight the frames and show him love –
the wealth of which overflowed)

We’ll have to mourn separately.

© Denis Adide 2013


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