by Aaron Blair
When you crawled up out of the mine,
there was a hole where your brain had been,
and you tried to fill it up with moonshine,
but your son still went to war to get away from you.
You both knew that the smell of burning flesh
was part of a suit that would be ill-fitting,
but he had no future under the mountain,
or in the liquid pouring out of the still.
Under the stars at night, you studied him,
this creature you had made, and found him lacking.
You punished him for being solid,
with no formula that you could adjust.
You never loved him.
He smelled too much of fear.
Author's Note: David was my great-grandfather's name.
Posted on 10/01/2012
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair
|Member Comments on this Poem
|Posted by David Maurice on 12/04/12 at 06:00 AM
It's like two bookends; one rotting away with the years and misuse, blackened and backwards, the second burning brightly, arrowing away as fast as possible and yet being bound by the bow, strung by knarled hands. And the book between? You just wrote it.