XI.
“We played one summer”
We played one summer
with the remnants of a fire
touching branches from a nearby tree
to its embers gingerly
so the rotten bark
glowed orange against the encroaching
dark.
We chased each other till we fell to sleep.
Hard to believe
in spite of it all
I still feel the world’s call.
About these things I have thought
for so long
it’s been a torment since I was young.
And though now I know better
still the images linger—
my mother’s deep reserve of care.
Father and his white chest hair.
Far from the world of known things
how could I not think he was king
angry god, hand that cast my lot.
I thought he brought light to my
every thought.
Inside his church I gave
my life away
I spent my days idling, nothing left
to consider in earnest, accept or reject
How can a life grow
trapped between cold stone?
These years
like souvenirs—
I was wrong to think
I could make the world agree
I realize
I’m inside time
Winter brings the biting winds
The twentieth century begins
…
Andrew Tye is from a town named Temple. He believes all humans are poets. He performs his forthcoming book My Son as a one-man show in NYC. He aims to share the book and the show with national audiences.