The N-Group Burial

This is like: my son’s body and I say it because a part of it begins with
Me too. In original seam, invisible thread of parting – fold from where
All started is the flood they warned would come, begins arriving;
Prophecy of harm inside me that feels different of its form, aware
That its condition travels (mostly) through this air: a void between us.
There is a code that must be followed in the efforts of creation;
I, alike all askew gods, prefer to stray from the norm.
As good in honest smile lies close, the weight of distance carries over;
These are features no other could father this well, bear in sporadic
Showing of its better as bane – at times tame – others barely.
Infant unprepared to face a burial in arms, deliver from this corner
An allotment of its burden – poor description of our placement –
Small account of how he’s suffered at the hands of all I’m saying.
So now they come to the graveyard and pray, ask for forgiveness or,
Punishment in wounded shapes – some bitter aspect of wrong in
Gape in respect to what has happened. I tell them: and the silence
Can’t offend them. This is the space to pretend I have answered
All their prayers.


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