Rope twisted and hairy on this fraying bridge
I don’t trust even my first step—
12 years, no word, no reason a canyon between us
me your only son
—even if a gale rocks the bridge
if we dangle mid-air—here, grab
—no calls you demand—
my hand, the rough rail.
— this most fragile
of conversations. You say not
father to son only as equals.
(How can I not be your son?)