The same, questions [poem]

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.

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