familial consciousness by Robin Gow

familial consciousness

we all wanted to be a son. took our faces down to the grotto where pale eyeless fish tell fortunes. anything can be a father if it is far enough away. something to be pointed to. that over there is where all my sadness came from. to be masculine is to be constantly addressing a lack of daffodils. but, just to be clear sew me with any flower you can find-i’m sick of the cement & the sorry sorry sorry. this poem is already too serious. i’m trying to say i need to be beautiful as soon as i can muster it. i have been trying to focus on poems that tell the truth. everyone was ten years old & cursed with a zoo in the heart. little beautiful cages. also ten, while making jello i dyed my fingers red to the knuckle. we brought forth wavering little planets. i cry less easily than ever before. tried to wash the red out but it persisted. looked like i stuck my fingers into a family machine. now it takes a lot to make me weep so instead Robin Gow

i watch videos of monsoons. i wash my hands with cool water instead of hot. pretend everything is a downpour. search the ceiling for another leak & find none-smooth & egg shell white. i sleep inside an embryo inside a red smudge. soon i will be someone’s father-biological or archeological & they will gesture to me as if i were a mountain. ask the elevation & i can’t tell you. i am a short but still smack my head on the ceiling. my age doubles each time i check my face. fish are useless in these endeavors. only the trees read anymore. but that is to be expected. a body is also what it will one day become. so tell me, will you be my brother? here is the photo album. here is what i want you to look like.