Father

He called collect for a reply to unanswered emails; he thought maybe I was dead –

but he’d been writing the wrong address.

The portion of his life that overlaps with mine:

a hymn of good intentions, if you speak Latin.

The mythology of his progeny; how the river of his blood sat diluted in my estuary.

“Ha,” he would bellow, overlooking the sea claim his legacy, “a fabrication from birth.”

And thus with my existence so neatly defined, I simply confirm to him I am alive.

Touching Fire

Fire is hot and it hurts you when you touch it

It only hurts because if it didn’t

Your brain would never learn

To protect you from harm

That’s PhysioLogical.

But if an external source of

Pain or danger

Has no proximity to a nerve

The brain has no reason

To protect you.

The heart doesn’t have anything to do with anything

Conscious or otherwise

It’s a student of our mind

But sometimes it aches when the intangible harms us.

You have to decide

If it aches enough

To be courageous and bold

To confront the unnamed

And name it.

Face it, touch it, hurting…

Hurting until your brain believes you are on fire

Then you can forgive

Because fire does not intend to hurt

It simply does