The gift ...

He lied to his son;

he said, “You will not die,

nor the waves in the sea,

nor the light in the sky.

      You will not die.

    And you will not forget

         the falsehood of things

           that have not happened yet.”

        And then he promptly forgot

     what bully – what fight –

       made his son afraid of flat lungs,

         still water, night;

                 what made him clutch that story

                 like sleep would a warm Spring shade –

              stretched out, absorbing space.

             Winged with trust, he played

         While from a bench – cutting

  cold breeze in the leaf bellies' glow –

His father chased splinters,

ducked sneezes, watched toes

 while his old lie rawled in him –

    an itch in his chest

       (the lostest make forms

    of the dark they know best).

           And one day – 9 thousand days

                 of dark ducking Spring –

                      his heart choked: a little

                                quiet clot through a ring.

                                      (Was that sky always green?)

                                                            “I'm ashamed son; I'm dying.”

                                                       But the young man – still true –

                                                                     replied, “No, dad. You're lying.”