Patriarch Patina

Oh Father that I am Not

Oh yes. I stand here fists on hips, adamant
and demanding. But within, I am the turmoil
inside Vesuvius. Friction among want and will,
wish and compassion, judgement and forgiveness
broil within my gut to dam my visceral reason
and beg pity for one move false and foolish . . .
Cannot love overshadow this fell mood? Cannot
compassion dismiss trivial offenses—especially
those quite probably imagined? Was it disrespect,
or merely a lapse of attention which led you astray,
dear one. My son, I love you no matter. And beg
the same. Am I not within the wilderness of my soul
that lost boy, bastard of the vicious bitch
who pretended forty years to be my mother,
yet never was her bosom lifted with the milk
of human kindness—ever the hind-teat of sour
strife and blame and guilt, the gall of sorrows
in whose cause I have no responsibility. This,
my son, my child, my ever-beloved offspring,
is why I am your sire, but never your father;
because the bitch of Anubis nursed me, I have
not that which most I needed to grant a son of my
heart and son of my loin. Please know,
in love you were conceived. In love you
were betrayed for your betterment
to foster parents with means beyond
what your mother and myself . . .
Hell hath no fury . . . And yet Earth has no
greater love than to sacrifice ones own need
for that of another. We sacrificed your life to you
that ours would not damn you to the hell
we created together in our madness—
not my madness, for it was too slight
not her madness, for it was not so great
but our madness, that madness we reflected
each in other and nurtured like some malignant
other embryo . . . And this price we tried to pay
that you might not enter this life indebted
soul-deep in our mutual debt of Karma and grief.
So now, how do I say to you, my son, my dearest flesh,
my greatest opus and yet least touched by me—
how do I end this song in hope
that you may know deep as Truth
we loved you always
we love you forever.

David M Pitchford
1 April 2008