In
truth, I haven’t been that perfect, or that steady, while holding criticism.
If
but to abandon me, if but to laugh outrageously, if but an irrevocable curse;
this lens, this sweet butterfly, this beautiful and brilliant but tragic Swan.
Love
once said, “You are too independent,” I broke lights to fathom distress.
But
a man might depend, a man might worship, if but some type of guarantee; those
clocks, their hands, they are both prophetic harbingers and bringers of Good Tidings;
as a mere fledgling, looking into mother, needing something incredible; where
anything would suffice, even something grim, as long as mother wouldn’t die;
but a susceptible youth, befriended by deaths, to become an adult vying for
visiting rights. This curse this want while a daughter needs something to feel
proud of: those mentors those hands-off clergy members or to invest in something
too secure to break.
I
imagine this reflection this terrible predicament while wrestling with our condition;
at pools meditating, or at church feeling uncertain, or looking into
behaviors our daughter must master.
But
Love is something curious and screaming, “I never had you.”
I must gallop through dreams. I must
campout on the rooftop. I, too, must teach a Swan to soar. We desire things,
those things we can’t give, while demanding these gifts. But a trifle man, but
a naked to guerillas man, where I rant and rage and demand something I cannot
give. If but to save face if but to advance further while a daughter is
watching and taking critical notes.
I unstitched a wound. I played in
it. I even displayed it before a psychiatrist. We chattered through discomfort something
natural when discussing human behavior. Such ivy garrets such ivory debates
while a quadroon is deciphering what it means to be a hybrid miracle. It
becomes surreal. It lives within. It is ever present. But a white mother—but a
mulatto father—but a Hispanic sister. This need for Mayberry, this uneven
desire, while society is waiting to chew us a new derrière. In truth, it becomes
a cagey war, those specters inside, those slow falling petals.
We seem entwined searching through
theories attempting to plant salvation. If but to arise and make proud a seed
that has little to decipher with; our deeper discernments, our needs to please
and satisfy our souls, or better, our cries to hear our seeds say, “I am proud
of you.”
It
kills something innocent. We desire with courage. We soon bend truths.
This Mayberry marathon this tragic
chase while some are maintaining a picture-perfect portrait. Our first vignette
our second triolet at something too devastating to openly discuss: to puncture
palms, those deaf deserters, while I die a man remiss in so many categories; as
to rage against a ribcage, or to quote too much scripture, while one is
loathing my guts.
