Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Alchemical Passes For Father and Son

Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9

*

No blame shall stain us now, father.

Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.

Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.

A bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules of the game,

the heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.

A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.

**

A lavender boy early
befriended by crows,
a softball between
the eyes guides
diamond thighs
everywhere waiting.

But before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,

and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.

I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake
into a sliding man
furious for home.

***

I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.

Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Their sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always unites
father/son -

untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,

slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and
light between the
greater shadows,

and shadows shall win the day.

****

Planets arc
and comets
rare trail lovers.

Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,

and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
wasted days.

****

That wild sweetness is a stolen base,

That the tongue is an untended garden.

There is a burning soft hands can know.

*****

Finally runs something headlong

sliding for home

inheriting circles latter-day.


Glad sons (are)

berries from

shadows gathered.



**Dandelion