Orphan's Gift
That’s me there, the orphan,
the incomplete son of a dead man,
mother’s blue veins
now solid as porcelain.
When I was a young man of purpose
I went to my father’s grave
to take a photo of his aura.
I expected an emanance, something
I hadn’t known of his life,
but I was alone,
just me and three graves:
his (I barely knew him),
my grandfather (a difficult man),
my stepfather (who never mattered).
There is a stone for my father,
none for the other two
in that mass grave,
as if they never existed.
My mother designed
her death in advance,
“pre-planning” it’s called,
but she left the details
to me, so
on the stone beside my father
I gave back my father’s name,
my name,
her name before and now again
for as long as the dirt stays
and isn’t tossed over the edge.
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