Poetry Thursday

I've seen others posting something called Poetry Thursday. I haven't tracked down the blogging source for the idea, but as I pondered the possibilities for today's blog post, this seemed an easy and appropriate possibility. I've been decluttering and recently got rid of an old book, but before I did, I copied this poem out of it. What with the circumstances surrounding my recent trip down to San Diego, it seemed even more poignant.

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Sons

These tall sons
whose names I cannot distinguish-
to call one, I rattle them all off:

Tom, Charles, Nick, Will, George-

What my mind sees:
is little boys-to break your heart
with the growing they have to do-

not these men. No wonder
I don't know their names-
lounging about bent-kneed
and hairy; making love to their wives
or the girls that they live with,
acting out cruelties
on these women who threaten
to control them.

No wonder I cannot call out
the names of these men!
My sons were boys.
I number them over:

George, Will, Nick, Charles, Tom

sensitive, gentle, understanding.
Needing shelter and protection.
These giants, gone over
to the other side-I do not remember
which is which-the one with the mustache
laughing, the tall dark one, they are all
strangers to me-their own small sons seem closer.

And yet:
seeing one snubbed and hurt
one defeated, my blood shouts
he is mine! go easy!
be gentle with him. Remember
how he was afraid of the dark
and he, of thunder, of how the blood
gushed out of his foot,
and of how that tall one used
to bring home bullfrogs
to sing under his window.

-Margery Cavanagh