Evening Song

It is good to walk in the dark,
holding a small child who cries
because he wants to be held.
 
His brother has brought the blade
of the scissors to the manes
and tales of the toy horses.

He has scattered the dark hairs
across the playroom floor.
I have wanted to turn the mouth

of the baby to my chest, let
him latch my lack of breast.
No more? I was never

his mother. I am his father.
Brother, run your blade across
my torso, it lets nothing

but blood. We must mutilate
ourselves. We must fail and bring
about failure, father to son,

and son to father. We must take
walks in the dark hallway,
the length of what is blue.