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.