Bring me the old man.
Give me that old soldier
Who broke your
Spirit upon the rack
Of all the pain he carries
That no one ever made a dent in.
Give me the child who wished for
A father she did not have.
Measure of Adam.
Made; Separated.
Give me your Sylvia Plath anger,
The rage that burns in your throat,
At the center of your chest
And somewhere between your shoulders,
The nightmares he gave you first.
Before you knew the word for zombie,
For skinwalker, for banshee,
For wraith, and for rake,
You knew the ghost that sired you.
Give me the fear, the anxiety,
The distrust that runs like saltwater
In your blood.
You are only hemoglobin. Not him.
We stopped bleeding people;
No more spirits, no more demons,
No more monsters in your blood.
Finite bodies that track every pain
And every mark, connected
By all the hyphae of memory.
There are things you are not made to carry.
You cannot keep a war you never knew,
Never fought in, never added to,
Cannot hold in the water of your soul.
Give it all to me, you precious child.
I will carry you.