My Father Visits My Brother in Jail

Neither knows why the other is there.

My brother is not allowed to say. My father is

dead. Stop thinking I’ve abandoned you,

Son. I’ve not abandoned you either, Father.

Each night lasts forever, which is too short.

Forever lies beyond measure. This place

is like a prison. No, this place is a prison,

Father, but I like to pretend I’m dead too,

beyond the reach of pain. You will never be

beyond the reach of pain. It’s the price of  being

alive, of  being a parent. I miss my children.

Then you will be okay. It’s cold, no?

Here, take this blanket. No, you take it.

I insist. But look at your trembling fingers.

Look at your own trembling. How much

longer until my children forget me? That’s not

for us to decide. Forgive me. You go first.

I already went first, Son. Please tell me a story,

Father, before you disappear again. How

about the one where the boy is eaten alive

by a wolf? Yes, Father, that is my favorite.

Some things never change. Stop saying that!

They don’t always need to, were the boy’s

last words before the wolf swallowed him

whole, do you remember? Yes, Father,

I remember, I remember. Good, good.

It was his father who heard him crying

inside the big belly of the sleeping wolf,

who slit open its body, who yanked the boy

back into the light, who then took hold

of his small hands and traced the knife

across the soft palms. It wasn’t an act

of cruelty, that much I still remember.

Yes, Son, it was a forever-long reminder

that our hands, if we delude ourselves

into thinking we are cured, can sink us

deeper into despair. Don’t worry, Father,

I’m not cured. I know, that’s why I’m here.

That’s why some wounds are never meant

to heal. That’s why it’s time I leave.