For Joan Houlihan
Molded him out of shit and spit and love, mud and a box of matchstick bones to be my child, the son I'll never have to comfort my young age, ages from the here and now of sunlessness (the deepest blizzard ever written down), a week of overcast, a month, a year, and snow I had forgotten to remember to forget. Mined him out of my scarred history and stories stolen from late night songs on FM radio, in stereo to call my son, out of contaminated blood, it's dangerous to love these days and nights of zero zero something or another 's coming. Something unpromised is coming, something uncompromised, a something wished for and given up, what was his name I heard myself calling to supper? I hear him calling father, further, faith in me, I thought I heard him say wait for my signal to wake up before you, or remember who I might be, make me the apple that seizes thine eye, heard him and then did not, my never all over again. I made him stop, or maybe that was my biohazard blood, said Closed for business, please come back another day (I'll do my best not to die till then), a week of rain when I had thought I saw some children playing at being snow, a child's footprints in snow. Mixed him up from memories and refrigerator magnets, stirred up regrets and recompense, my confusion made him shine, and rise, my son.