Three A.M.

 

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.