The Younger Son So he set off and went to his
father. -- Luke 15:18
The gold is gone, and the
last tubercular floozie has stamped her foot, swished an angry skirt,
and slammed the door. In pursuit of the rapture of the deep I
settled for giggles in the back room. A comedian with no more
jokes stumbling off stage left. Shame can wait, not hunger. I
remember the mutton, the dates, uneaten in my fathers pantry, and
not a single sow in sight.
How hunger teaches the strategies of
guilt; the husks of my fathers swine are wise if you will
listen. Famine is seeing, unveiling. Perhaps he would take me
back if I chose the right words. At eighteen, Father, I
asked for mine, though you lived.
You gave the portion due
me, full freedom for the road. And I was gone for years of tavern
geniuses and tattoos.
The stomach remembers the stories of
lost things: drachmas swept from under the bed, sheep freed from the
brambles.
Remembering always has a twin, like the speaking mirror on
the wall. Why not a son who was dead, startled into life by
memory.
The Elder Son The elder
son refuses to enter the house: You have never given me even a young goat
so that I might celebrate with my friends. -- Luke
15:29
So hes back, Stud the
Magnificent, himself, him whom you love. You put rings on his
fingers, cloak him in silk, kill the grain-fed calf, call in the
flutes so he nights away the defiances of day, dances deceit to your
tambourines.
Himself brings only pain. And you could not wait to be
deceived. You expect it, bow beneath the blow. Yet again. And you
weep. This idiocy of love is tacky.
I fetch and carry; I wait to
be chosen, reschedule my life for you. No coat of many colors, no gold
for my fingers, no sandals for my feet, no fatted calf to bleed for
me, no harp to pluck for joy. This son has yet to dance with
friends around a pot of goat stew.
Him you have loved, him. No, I
will not come in.
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The Father of the Younger
Son While he was still far off his father saw
him. -- Luke 15:20
Even after I gave up keeping the tiger
cub in his cage, I picked it up, forgetting snarls and claws, though I
have bite marks,
scratches to show love comes late, scarred to
wisdom. Though you keep the cub from larger cats, beware! Young tigers
have no shame.
The years I do not count passing the window in the
front, searching the road for signs of that cat no leash could check,
unmuzzled, free, and bleeding.
The helpless ache is ordinary,
the Thursday tedious, as I give a passing glance through the window
at the dot on the far horizon, walking as many have walked
before.
But the way he swings his arms, turns his head, slightly
pigeon-toed. I am out the door, down the stairs, down the road,
running, arms outstretched.
My embrace, my tears, my laughter gather
in all the years, my kiss stops rehearsed genealogies of sin, outlawing
of self. Of course, you are my son.
Be quick, steward, clothe
him like the son of an Eastern king, the best robe from my chest, wake
the cook, load the table with meats and wines.
Call in friends and
foes, blaze the night into day with torches, push the chairs against
the wall, pluck the harps, strike the largest timbrel.
When the dead
come back you drink. When the lost are found you dance.
The Father of the Elder
Son But we had to celebrate. -- Luke
15:3
Son, you are always with me. All my pastures, granges,
granaries, all are yours, have ever been. You know you are my very
self. But for the living owner I did not blow the rams
horn.
You are right, of course: my love is tacky, untidy. But you
mistake to balance love, to measure by level tablespoons, like a chemist
weighing arsenic. No excess. -- You were never dead.
When the grave
throws up a son there is a commotion of love, a proper father
malady, like three riots in the heart. We dance, we sing, we lift our
cups, because we must.
Now I blow the ram’s horn.
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