The boys in the temple today
spoke down to me, questioned
Again, about your father
Eyes, pure white, open and embracing
circles of brown around black
I still believe these are more beautiful
than any I’ve seen.
I regret what I told them.
“You will have children. Never leave your sons,” I say.
“Please do not do what your father, and mother, did,” you say, they say, silent.
I turned my back and walked away
from my choices, the surprise and hypocrisy
beliefs of your parents, my parents, all
products of lifetimes.
I hope the questions stop.
“It’s not the Indian way,” they say.
“Abortions, preferred,” you say, they say, silent.
Your father, being human being, a man
Tender boy made in mountains
Naive, frightened within the existence
we created, they created, were created, are created.
Truth, still a mystery to me.
“Father will love him, you share blood,” I say.
“It’s too dangerous to try,” you say, they say, silent.
Nearly two years have passed. I am
not the same, never the same, and surely neither
are you, alone in the secret of fatherhood
Missing, or dead, maybe. That is the same.
I hope the questions stop.
