Friday, November 5, 2010


© 2008, 2010 Manuel Erickson

You are damned.
Viscous gel oozes
from your heart that is blacker
than the blackest diamond
than the blackest coal
than the biggest black hole in the cosmos.
Your sons will disavow and hate you
when they see and understand
the damage you have done
to me, their grandfather:
your stolid silence, your letter
filled with loathing, your decision
not to have anything to do with me—
I, who loved you:
for you will have damaged them.

Are you redeemable? perhaps: if you
see, understand and acknowledge
the bullets you have shot
into my heart and theirs;
perhaps: if nightmares force you
to swim in tears of shame
until your eyes dry out
and become orbs of sandy grit
until you beg forgiveness
on bleeding knees
for your wrongs.

Only then.

Then, in a time not that futuristic,
your children might say to you,
“Thank you, Mum, for giving me
my grandfather.”

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