A.W.

     
I murdered your old man      
in Nelson County, Virginia      
at the foot of the Blue Ridge      
twelve days ago      
on the Wednesday you arrived      
     
he was amending himself      
to the movers of the moon      
when the last few apologies      
required sacrifice    
so he pleaded to the knife    
that my father left me behind      
     
I held it firm as promise      
letting him fall on it      
after we sat sipping mountain whiskey      
in the last heat the summer offered      
speaking in the way that subtle breezes      
tell of the world's romance      
     
we sang the simple songs      
that crumble hard men      
and we cried, boy      
wailing a profound grief      
into the acceptance of a love      
that found us at the last outpost      
     
and then he made me swear      
that you would come to the songs      
much differently      
that the tenderness      
tending to the teaching of your voice      
would remain unbroken      
     
the last thing he said      
was that I would recognize you      
when I first saw your face      
and I didn't      
not in the way that I expected      
     
but as I held you in my palms      
a knowing that surpasses naming      
made sense of a murdered man      
that knew that I would anchor      
the edges of your horizon      
as long as my eyes stay open      
on the deck of this dirt      
that has never welcomed life      
as eagerly as it has yours