Speak My Name, Father
Absolom,
Absolom,
There are stories in repeated names,
grief in the mind, skipping like old vinyl,
a plea beyond a place of words —
just the unbroken dirge of a broken heart.
Truths in names tell timeless stories
of old wounds and pointless tragedy,
making us who we were meant to be,
as if to joy we have been finally lost.
Fragile hope is yet the last to go,
echoed in a futile summoning, a name,
as I hang, caught, a lost world below my feet,
noble thoughts, pure goals, my actions ashes.
I come back to you, now, head severed,
damned by you, blessed by you — too late;
there are stories that will adorn your grave,
stories of things you could have saved.
Speak my name, father, say it twice,
shout it louder than my exile, but I know,
too late you’ll whisper through grit teeth
words you should have said, instead:
My son,
my son.
