The Missing Stitch

After the homecoming dance,
I jumped off the cabana porch like a restive yearling,
over a hedge and into the pool.

My suit pants split at the knee
and my mother riled up like an unread
religion. She let me know
there was nothing a fool could keep.
She spoke a future of ripped up promises
and a ruined appearance.

Of course, the pants could not be mended.
Semesters interred, the chiseler took
a frustrated crack at my skin,
and put marks on me: a man who would not come alive.

As though there were always grains in my pestle,
I worked the rubbing, the absence in my life.
There was a total and surreptitious drawdown of vitality within me.
No one could care for me,
and men like myself should not act,
so I am alone.

I don’t much mind the way I look slapped on both cheeks,
it was the humiliation of being such a fool,
for mother shamed me as a fool.

Older and touched with age,
I understand how even decrepit men can feel like whistling
at young beauties, but I’m glad the years have winded me to aching
pastures among the company of weather and fruit trees.
I am made gentle by regret,
I am made gentle by receiving the provisions that come with dawn.

When I was young I never slowed to the slow
way of adults, or admired their control.
It is better to look at them
than have them look at me in my wildflower patch.

Asher Radunsky’s question: Does the pain of the character seem too fictional?

Reply directly to the poet at: asherone23  (at)  gmail  (dot)  com

9-12-11