THE FATHER GOD
David Cowen
the light is finally put out
he sleeps again, curled into himself,
gently rocking and cooing,
quieted by the warm reassurance
of my hand on his chest;
in the stillness of his rythmic sucking
on a now shriveled thumb
I am enveloped in the dark
by an uncomfortable illumination
of frail omnipotence
I am god to his squealing prayers;
the fountain to his incessant thirst;
the sun to his cold shivers;
the manna to his cavernous hunger;
but I am a temporary god.
one day he will sleep alone as I do;
with no warm interposing hand
to rock away the disquieting dark
