Way Of My Mother And Father

Way Of My Mother And Father
© Surazeus
2018 01 16

The way my mother breathes afternoon light
and from its rays beaming on kitchen walls
molds jars of peaches that float in gold juice
like fetuses of angels without wings
who teach me secrets of the universe
sealed tight against corruption of the truth.

The way my father reaches hands to grasp
storm clouds that bulge into mountains of trees
where every child that died before its birth
flutters wings to bring the wind to my mouth
so I taste the soil from which flowers bloom
sweet as honey bleeding from wounded trees.

The way my mother weeps at the round table
to rain preserving juice for jars of fruit
that glitter moonlight on tongues of old trees
who whisper secrets of the universe
sewn by needles into the shirt that veils
my nakedness before the burning eye.

The way my father laughs when he drives car
fast as wind on bridge between two worlds
that arches over the abyss of eyes
watching me attempt to fly on white wings
I wove from memories flashing my brain
so I can fly to Heaven on my own.

The way my mother takes words from my mouth
and converts their sounds into thin black threads
she sews into the shirt I wear to school
where books blotch secrets of the universe
and teachers erase fairy tales from wind
so I must reinvent the world of dreams.

The way my father molds idols of gods
from river mud to illustrate the minds
of our ancestors who built castle towers
to survey the land with Runes druids carve
on the dead oak tree where ravens explain
how children are born from spirit of rain.

The way my mother conflates name of God
with massive Black Whole that pulses with light
at the heart of the galaxy which spirals
on angel wings from peak of Paradise
where Dante kisses Beatrice on the mouth
so I know why energy whorls my atoms.

The way my father maps the broken world
with bones from dragons he claimed that he slew
to teach me how Orpheus found the cave
where Ophelia got lost searching for hives
of honey bees who sing electric vibes
in waves of laughter that weave my brain right.

The way my mother gazes at the sky
and talks to her father who sat on throne
of gold on top the ziggurat of eyes
and fools me to think that God is the sun
of shining light that glows in boundless space
and watches me every day of my life.

The way my father holds gold scepter high
that captures sunlight in its diamond eye
to command thousands of obedient men
and fools me to believe that he is God
who created the world with words of wind
till he dies and dissolves to silent dust.