A Prayer For My Son
Since Harry Potter wasn’t the only young man forced
to summon his own Patronis all alone,
and since, still living, I’d never abandon my son,
to cast alone that spell I, too, can summon,
I write this poem now as a prayer for you.
May your should always be the perfect place
to cry, laugh, or sigh upon,
and may the twinkle across your eyes always bewitch
the eyes you deepest desire to set ablaze;
may your lovers find that missing you
stings far harder than forgiving you;
may you never forget that some kinds of jealousy
are just the sincerest sign of falling in love.
Never notice with alarm those too timid to bring
their full fascination with you out into the open,
and never rue a friend you realize laces or chases
unyielding admiration with occasional spite.
Never doubt those who trust you, somehow,
ever more than you doubt yourself,
and always allow those who worst broke your heart
at least one chance to try to mend it.
Know that, as my son, those you cradle within your arms
–in your conjugal bed–
will never find a safer or more sure sensuality;
remember too, as my son, that those you swore forgot you
must be the worst heartbroken, if having lost you,
you remember them still.
Understand that sons and daughters
listen ever more loudly than lovers, and they
remember true the purpose behind your lies–
see that those who raise up your children
are the true Mad Royalty of civilizations–
they insist on empires run for men like you and me.
May the depth of your forgiveness run as deep as
your best arrows of indignation fly far;
may you always find a joke or toast or poem
to reassure any timid, wayward on you find you found
–somehow–as you travel on your way through time.
Amen, my son, amen.