The poem had begun. The bond between
a father and his son... was all that I
could write before, again, I drew that blank:
that nothingness that clouds my thoughts,
that stills my pen. Deep breath. Let’s start. Again.
That bond between a father and his son...
But no. That big black line, where ‘Father’s Name’
should be – that thick black line which speaks to me
of emptiness, of space between, of loss,
of gaps that can’t and won’t be bridged, of words
I know do not exist – that line was drawn
through all the words I could not write; crossed out
before I’d even written them. Instead,
I added two lines of my own to fill
that space, left blank, where father’s name should be:
Two people looking at the stars at night,
as far apart as two points in the sky.
Two uncrossed lines, now written down, I looked
at them and knew at last the thing was done:
the bond between that father and this son.