I have a mistress,her name is sorrow,
shall be our child.
but how will sorrow’s womb be fertile,
if she leaves no room for my whisper,
how will I inherit grief
to carry on my name
if the sporadic nature of her call
is through the most mundane
how will grief grow bones and skin and eyes and fingers
if her bosom sees no sun nor candle
so don’t look at me as a madman, an adulterer, a man of the tavern or temple
just let me be this brittle being
hidden-unseen, having been
an in between, anything but unclean
the loss of a child strikes you mad,
when grief is a metaphor for dad.