Even on Amazon: a Poem for my Son

Son, 
    there exist dreams I wish
I could 
        make come true, and 
not the kind
where some parents buy or
do for their
kids, so they never learn how
dimes drop into sewers more
often than make it to the 
candy shop.

Son,
    look in my eyes because I 
know what 
   becomes of holding on to
anger and despair so great,
it feels like
a clash of a Midwest tornado
into a 
Southeastern hurricane. It's
only after you realize the
damage in your wake.

Son,
  I love you as I see you slip
away and 
   I know the sound of how a
heart breaks. I know the kid 
said things, and it's a case 
of he said,
you said, and in our lives,
there will always exist he said,
she said until the moment
when the quiet comes.

Son,
   you are not the first angry
young man
  to enter my room, and say
through gritted
teeth, "Life's not fair." But 
unlike other young
men, you've seen me fall
and have to learn to 
walk again.

Unlike other young men,
   you're of my blood, 
of my womb, and your 
coming surprised me. 
   I wasn't ready
when they said I carried
you. I 
     was
           still
too young in so many 
ways. I made the 
decision that you
were–and are–
   always
         mine.

Son,
   many angry young men 
enter my classroom.
     They've lost.
You've lost.
               I've lost, and 
you've heard me curse
god. You saw me lose 
my faith for how 
  could I believe 
in a god who 
  took 
         our girl 
                 away?

Son, 
   when people said it
was "God's will" 
it was like they
put me in a movie 
where a clown held a 
knife, and I
wondered
       in all my anger
  how 
      they'd feel if 
anyone had said that
of their baby girl,
         baby boy,
anyone who was their world?

Son,
      I could not throw 
my anger around
     as if I'm a toddler 
tossing its body 
in the bed. I could not
   throw darts at every
balloon I see just 
          because
   i tried and failed to 
save my baby girl,
   our puppy,
 could not hold on to 
    the baby that fled 
my body,  or stop your 
father's cancer.

Son,
   I know anger. I still
feel it everyday; to my core,
in my heart,
      but I've had to 
learn to let the rain
pour over me. When a
a girl says I teach and "raise"
young adults, 
        I know I wasn't one to
sing nursery songs–
      except to you and 
your sister long ago–and 
maybe a baby won't 
     come to me.

But son,
    I know the feel of bars
and the slam of the door. 
Let not the fires 
surround you by your
creation. Hope is the
friend you
long to see from years
ago, and it 
lingers for a moment,
     but 
  you 
        must learn to 
  live when 
sometimes hope and
joy
     are not 
available
          even on Amazon.

By R.A. Bridges