epoetica

my son, my son

You can, with your little hands, drag me into your grave -you have the right — I myself who am joined with you, I let myself go — but if you wish, the two of us, let us make… an alliance -a hymen, magnifcent - and the life left in me I will use to…- so not mother then?ceremony - coffin - etc.there we saw (the father) the whole material side - which lets us tell ourselves at need - ah! well yes! it is all there - no fear for me thinking of something else (the reformation of his spirit, which is eternal - can wait (granted but eternity through my life)_____father -shape his spirit (he absent, alas! as we would have shaped him better present but sometimes when it all seems to be going too well - as an ideal - cry out - in the mother’s tone, she who has become attentive - This is not enoughI want him, him - and not me - 

my dad first introduced me to eric whitacre on the westernmost tip of portugal, in april of 2004, more or less 5 weeks before the cabrillo college chorus sang ‘i thank you god for most this amazing day’ at my sister’s funeral.

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