a fathers gift

i etch this poem of self
a singular thing
unique not crafted
but quivering raw

gust of arctic cold
polar wind that burrows deep
into bright blood
and brine bleached bone

i drink you
into emerald eyes
you see the patterns
of my skies

balance you
on trembling tongue
to weave my words
as your own

scratch my skin
you bleed
and punch
my rattling ribs recoil

suck you down
to my cold clay
my worms feed you,
entrails entwine.

Your milky nails rake my
face and draw
plasmatic dew from
downy cheeks.

I drown you
with my viscera
so you taste me red
and fresh, inhale my flesh.

I place your tongue
into my ear
that you may
taste the world i hear,

claws rip beating core,
you thirst for more
and so I stitch you
in my hollow hide

That you may walk
my burning path
and breathe my
fetid air,

and be born strong
and see the world
for what it is my
my darling son.


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