He would have to settle for an unmarked grave, if you could call it that, and his bleached white bones, stripped clean by wild dogs in a dry riverbed on the outskirts of Kabul, not unlike the one he
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Stone never once spoke, my son. So why now
do you press down, waiting on words unheard
to trickle up through this, my unchosen ground?
Listen. Only the memory of birth.
I have told you already all I know: that
Love has been for me an altar, the bed
of blood a wound wound around my lefter hand’s
finger, linger —ing venipuncture. Set
not lilacs here; these burgeoning burial
plots are blossoming full. Like the fool, deaf
-hearted, you, one step from the fall,
foal-feet breaking on briars— my last breath
waking you to silence.
do you press down, waiting on words unheard
to trickle up through this, my unchosen ground?
Listen. Only the memory of birth.
I have told you already all I know: that
Love has been for me an altar, the bed
of blood a wound wound around my lefter hand’s
finger, linger —ing venipuncture. Set
not lilacs here; these burgeoning burial
plots are blossoming full. Like the fool, deaf
-hearted, you, one step from the fall,
foal-feet breaking on briars— my last breath
waking you to silence.
4