Tennis with Dad

The Game, March 21
As if it happened this way:
my hand was made of concrete
I was your scalpel
you were fragile
I was Bjorn Borg
your pain never came
my forehand volley was bad
I was never there
you were made of glass
I was a blowtorch
your tongue melted
my memory was real
I intended to kill you
you crawled to the alter
I was Bjorn Borg
your life was a game
my days were sleep
I had ever grown up
you were a scalpel
I was made of flesh
your body was immortal

Your Bedroom, March 22
I was Bjorn Borg
an all powerful boy god
decisively removing oxygen
placing it in small cylinders
wheeled beside your nightstand
self medicating your pure breath
stopping you from uttering truth
when you said you were dying
you hadn't smiled at me then


The Hospital, March 23
As if:
I was Bjorn Borg
the moment was televised
to my whole family
when in black and white
you died playing with me
I wasn’t and it wasn’t true
that you were ripe
and split open for me
and like a time-bomb
exploded two days later

The ICU, March 24
As if:
I was Bjorn Borg
and had never won a match
I was assassinated on the court
before you were dead
and left these concrete hands
as a legacy trapped at home
I wasn’t your same age now
you the surgeon laying down
or you were left a widower
and tennis had never existed
and you let me win just once

The Graveyard, March 27
I’m an old child caught netless
with nails in his birth certificate
refusing to argue the bad call
I had thought I was Bjorn Borg
and wished no one knew me

Now Awake

This calcium latticework upon which I dwell,
harbors a hatred for flesh related and personal.
A resentment for the hours of neglect.

And for the toxin laden softness of tissue,
burdens arterially pumped across years,
as if a flood forever swelled the world.

When those many soft sins accumulated,
mortality deposited in cellular divisions,
this blindness unaware jumped ship.

An indictment of some magical relief,
vision now as clear as unwashed glass,
my saline bag begs for more time at your feet.

Yes, these remembered bones despise me,
forgetfulness imagined so deliberately,
like a pouting child ignoring punishment.

Self referentially blindfolded then and again,
falling now forever inside this graying light,
unveiled as some hard mortification at hand.

These polluted bones will suddenly fall apart,
crepuscular comrades have joined the charade,
wailing a protest to the minutes remaining for me.

an old post that still holds true:
this is depression...you're cruising along and then...