Unblinking Eye
Photograph by Ed Buffaloe

Some Sort of Litany

My father rests inside my womb
waiting to be born whole.
It will not be.  I took him in
just as he was and so he'll remain
though his contradictions rack me like a birth
and all my small boy's longings cup him
amniotically and will (I know now)
till I'm where he now is in the flesh--or bone.
And even then perhaps.
Yes, somewhere in the womb of my bones
he'll lie, waiting still to be born whole--
till my bones are stone
and then still my stone soul will cup him
because small boys' longings outlast even stone
as small boys' griefs outlast the rain.

Poem copyright 1991 by Albert Huffstickler

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