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Three a.m. and this is crazy
but I am full and crazy
and I want words for Dylan
asleep on cushions on the floor,
rolling because it's three a.m.
and the lights are still on.
Dylan whose body is still whole
after six years of world,
who loves saunas and hot tubs
and splashes of cold water,
who snuggles in bed and on laps,
who moves toward the touches,
toward the warm,
who jumps free into loving bed
asking in clearest plainsong
"What's this all about,
this lying on top of each other?"
Dylan who goes to school
to learn that farts are to laugh at,
that fuck is a word for frustration,
but who comes home to lie with me in bath,
legs around legs,
while we talk warm talks,
soften to the intimacy
that comes with blessed touch.
Learn, my son,
learn the best of me.
Learn deep to remember
through the wars,
learn to remember
somewhere much later
after a hundred tidal wave confusions
that touch is love
and warm is wonder.
Out of nowhere in a peopleful room
he wants to hug.
Arms reach up.
I stop everything,
sink to my knees to hold warm body,
feel the love in my touch,
in his touch,
yielding, surrendering
to the sudden flow,
one moment among a thousand hundreds,
chits against the future,
the bombardment of giggles and embarrassments,
or roles and pretendings.
It comes hard and fast, gentle boy-child.
I have been where you must go,
death and distortion on every side.
I will pray for you,
pray that the ground in you
built of the soil of all these moments
these warms
these laughs
these touches
these wisdoms
that the ground will hold
and keep you from the abyss
that splits pleasure from mind.
Slowly, slowly, my faith grows.
Faith in the strength of these seeds.
Faith that the body knows all.
Faith that somehow,
through the maze of contortions and snares,
you will flower in your springtime
and leave barren desert alone.
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