God’s Boy
For my Mother
He is loved by omission
Who, through heaven’s hot-white eye,
Stutters in the lost hills
Without his whole heart.
Till someone taps the glass
He shall not move –
He will work in the tank,
Or he will not feed,
And he will not be fed.
This is the fulcrum world
– He has passed through
Spheres myriad and endless strange –
To this mortal meadow;
The black & silver filigree
Has turned incredibly
The clockwork,
Fitting one way, then another,
In only one impeccable design
That blows the atoms
Inside out the burning aperture
Of breath eternal.
The one route has been taken,
The briars at his trouser cuffs
Like him accepting and also not.
He is still in the tank,
On the plane,
In the womb,
In his mother’s room.
True love is holy,
She is telling herself.
***
Jon Fern is a British-American poet living in upstate New York. His chapbook, Distal Snow, will be available this summer
SICK LIT MAGAZINE 