Violet

Hear that wind, son?

That is the breath of your father
As he blows in your ear.
Come off to bed, hold on to my hand while you can,
And pajama romp to the pillow queen.
My boy, let me dress your round feet in slipping ram horn shoes
And lion’s mane socks.

If any uncertain shadows come creeping across the sheets
Burn them with your dragon scale tongue
And never forget about me

Because I feel like a bulb, drooping white sprouts and bell-shaped flowers,
Spring Snowflake, Laddon Lily, my genus dripping down my stem,
Leucojum juices ooze from each wound, all of them for you,
No wishes from a genie, no magic growth, something I hope to let you have,
A fingernail chance from your a black leather bag.
That you may escape my violet shadow, break free from those bonds
I have shaded you with, clip through the iron bits suffocating your artist wrists,
And climb to the white eye of the pyramid
to stand proud and bat your black eyelids at the seraphim
Through science thick spectacles, and grin white rows
from behind English ink stained lips.

And don’t cringe as I tuck your African feet in,
They’ll not ache here on the American mattress;
Don’t dream, my love, hold it till tomorrow
When the first flowers open up to the sun dripping across their dewy eyes
And the Acers of rye sweep you away into a dawning day of corn grins.