108 fountains
03-03-2014, 01:42 AM
His earliest memories were of his fear.
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
He remembered little before five or six years old
Except that this anxious thought had already appeared.
A little boy crying himself to sleep,
Such a burden for one yet so young.
It must have emerged, his fear, he thought,
Along with his own budding consciousness of being.
Devastating, tormenting, red-eyed, brain-burning,
He told it to no one, his fear,
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
Except for this, he was a normal child,
Played sports and was smart at school,
But when they came to tuck him in,
He held on a little too long, a bit too tight.
And they in the next room not knowing
Of his nights of torture and salty-wet pillows.
When he was twelve, baseball was his passion,
But his fear became his terror;
They seemed to move more stiffly now
And their hair was turning gray.
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
At eighteen, he graduated, pleased to cause them pride,
Yet he thought it odd to be so near a man
And still cry like a child in the night.
It shamed him, pained him, night and day.
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
When he was twenty-four, he left to save the world,
And while he saved it, he flinched with every phone call
Dreading any news that he might hear
Before he came back home to stay.
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
Now at forty-five, the tears were no longer
The desperate tears of terror.
The sobs were no longer
The anxious sobs of fear.
Instead they were the marks of loss,
And they would never go away.
One day, a conversation with his elder sister
Conjured up a ghost.
“Do you remember, or were you too young?
“Do you remember your grandparents?”
“I was too young,” he said.
“I don’t remember them at all.”
“Yes, you were only two or three years old
“When they died.
“And they died
“Within days of each other.
“You don’t remember then, how Mama carried on?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“Well, I was ten, and I remember it well.
“She cried and cried for weeks and weeks
“Until she made herself sick.
“God, I remember those days!
“She would walk through the house
“Crying and carrying on.
“You should be glad you don’t remember.
“Always crying and repeating over and over again
“‘Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.’”
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
He remembered little before five or six years old
Except that this anxious thought had already appeared.
A little boy crying himself to sleep,
Such a burden for one yet so young.
It must have emerged, his fear, he thought,
Along with his own budding consciousness of being.
Devastating, tormenting, red-eyed, brain-burning,
He told it to no one, his fear,
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
Except for this, he was a normal child,
Played sports and was smart at school,
But when they came to tuck him in,
He held on a little too long, a bit too tight.
And they in the next room not knowing
Of his nights of torture and salty-wet pillows.
When he was twelve, baseball was his passion,
But his fear became his terror;
They seemed to move more stiffly now
And their hair was turning gray.
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
At eighteen, he graduated, pleased to cause them pride,
Yet he thought it odd to be so near a man
And still cry like a child in the night.
It shamed him, pained him, night and day.
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
When he was twenty-four, he left to save the world,
And while he saved it, he flinched with every phone call
Dreading any news that he might hear
Before he came back home to stay.
Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.
Now at forty-five, the tears were no longer
The desperate tears of terror.
The sobs were no longer
The anxious sobs of fear.
Instead they were the marks of loss,
And they would never go away.
One day, a conversation with his elder sister
Conjured up a ghost.
“Do you remember, or were you too young?
“Do you remember your grandparents?”
“I was too young,” he said.
“I don’t remember them at all.”
“Yes, you were only two or three years old
“When they died.
“And they died
“Within days of each other.
“You don’t remember then, how Mama carried on?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“Well, I was ten, and I remember it well.
“She cried and cried for weeks and weeks
“Until she made herself sick.
“God, I remember those days!
“She would walk through the house
“Crying and carrying on.
“You should be glad you don’t remember.
“Always crying and repeating over and over again
“‘Don’t go away, Mama and Papa, don’t go away.’”