His name possesses a posture
that of which can only be
carried by a father.
I'm standing so heavily on the doorstep.
A last name that neatly
could be my own.
I feel you by nature,
but stricken with uncertainly.
Infinitely malicious
without your attention.
Clutching the doorknob.
Opened constantly.
United with my blood
an only constant.
Different for a connected name
with a bond.
We both didn't enter this--
toward the un-special
We walk grounded.
Childless as he in moments
An angle which I curl---
a fetus is reminded and
he could ignore it again as I
forget it again.
Steadily he places
his hand on his head
rubbing his temple.
We have the same hands
the same headaches.
Unequal emotions
and after the short greetings
in a sudden face between lights
we look alike and still
unknown.
I turned that doorknob,
every door that opened
and what I couldn't invite.
A forced identity. I did. I am
nameless.
YOU ARE READING
Three by Thirteen
PoetryI finally found my old notebooks and I told someone that I would post my old poems so here are three poems from when I was thirteen. I did cheat a little by fixing a couple of spelling errors and adding punctuation. I won't be adding any more to th...
