Sins of His Mother, Sins of My Father

Sins of His Mother, Sins of My Father


I'm thirty years old,
feeling a midlife crisis;
caught up in something bigger than me,
a decision--my decision--I'm surely paying for.
Son in my hands--
clenched, I should say,
making him pay for the sins of his mother,
although his mother won't allow him to know.
His father long-dead.
His future still a mystery.
I look at him and suddenly remember
the fists of a man I called my father.

And now I wear his mask.
Now I'm him at forty,
staring down at me at twelve,
same age as my son but now detached.
Sweat on my face,
wet against the mask;
not completely sure whether this heaviness of my face
is my shame or that of another man's.
Clenching her throat,
but I know I'll let go.
Although I know I'm not myself anymore,
his thoughts are mine, but mine are those of a spectator.
My father will die soon,
and so will his grasp
at the end of a realization of what was done
and of a barrel, safety to the blast.

Now I see my son.
Eyes of my own
find my hold on him an act of someone else,
my hands numb, my grip cold.
Sluggish -tocking of a clock.
It's stillness, then it's not.
I drop my hands and look at the floor.
My little boy runs to hug me.
I hold him close to my chest;
heart beats tears
out of my eyes, down my face,
tears of my father, my conscience his mask.