I hope I never lose the memory
of what it felt like to hold you
complete,
my infant son.
To know my arms
are the only thing
that kept the world from crushing you,
though I can barely save myself.
The fear empowers
and overpowers me.
To save us both
I whisper-sing into your ear
a military marching song
of boys graven in their father's image
grown,
staring,
sobered at a fun-house mirror
as the lights come on
and the D.J. plays the polka
to scare the bacchanalians into
stumbling out the door
blind and vital
alive in Christ
like no seminary alumnus
high on Eucharist
and Jesus juice
could ever hope
to give witness.
And I remember it
as the most divine rendition.