There on that narrow spike-span stretching
between what shall be and what has already been
he stands, my Absalom, hair blowing breezy in the wind…
golden glow and fierce mane shaking itself hard
in anger, pride, in sorrow, ache, in Nine gods’ names
Oh Absalom, Absalom my son, my golden glowing son
standing ‘neath that terebinth in blackness,
without way forward and none behind, no back-ness on the bridge,
and masks(ness) stuck to your face and laying limp there at your feet
I walk to meet you there, on that stark narrow span in air…
Horatius stood in that same place
and felt the things that pulse in you
and waited for the enemy
to show itself, fierce, solid, real
and fear, resolve, thrills did feel
as he a country stood to save
But Absalom? He has no place to go
Forward into what’s not known
but back is not permitted
for there’s nothing to go back to.
You know the pain of what’s been robbed
from you, but you have no idea
the ache that throbs here, deep in me
And rueful choices’ symphony
resounds below you, ‘neath your feet
and make that thin bridge sway
This way, that way, but you just ride,
time’s red-black surfer on time’s tide
and riding staves across the past’s deep cold and unforgiving waves
I take a breath and I step out towards you.
And walk…slow and deliberate
towards your angry broken face
and swollen heated broken heart
my fingers stretched for just one touch
to tell you I forgive all words
and need forgiveness for all loss
and all my failure’s litany
that, written in your eyes of me
and my dull inability, Oh Absalom, my son!
My son! Would to God I died for thee!
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