Every Son Of Every Man

A poem

Copyright author

The old man, revered
by my mother and grandmother,
was quiet and seemed
indifferent to my presence.
I dreaded being with him
in the pre-dawn night.
If he spoke, I’d have to speak.
Even if I’d known him,
I wouldn’t be able to relax.
He’d soon see that I was slow
and tire of my silence.
Thrash me, like my father.

He hadn’t said anything to me
since our arrival,
when he hooked the curved end
of his walking stick around my neck,
pulled me onto his knee
and spoke gruffly, though
probably kindly,
in forgotten words.

The smell of
the treated wood,
the hard crook of the cane
around my throat,
had made it hard to answer,
and I recoiled, frozen
with fright.