No one knows my body better than you
who counted on it for sustenance those
months inside my most interior,
and even now, you may know things
about me that I cannot know or refuse to know
but I do know this: my heart is failing.
I mention this, my son, because there is no one
who knows me better. I realize I’ve already
made that clear, but is it clear? To you, I mean?
Is it clear how closely sons (or daughters,
though I have none) in coming from our
own bodies, own us, en-home us?
I am certainly not owned or imprisoned
by a single sperm, a lonely ova. We escape our mothers
while enslaving them. Mothers who know us
before we are seen. Which is my point. I think.
But also this: in being born, you made me something I was not.
You changed me.
I don’t always know what point I am trying
to make. I certainly have no idea how someone
else will take my point, my thought, my whole damn philosophy
of being here in this suspended animation zone
we call a life. I’m getting into that zone
now, where you will either sign off or sigh
and continue reading. You’ve come this far.
Let’s walk a bit further, even if we are afraid.
Go with me into the day, the night, the end,
the dawn, whatever. I am old and tired
of peachie-keen speeches. Exhausted really.
There is no point in looking for the whole picture,
with presbyopia, so I stray around the borders, trying to see
the points that make up the line, trying not to use
lines to draw, attempting to make sense
of what? Of what?
Do you know, my son? Do you know my son?