A Poem as Incomplete as He is

His body is weighty— heavy with the sadness of a thousand lonely sons lying frightened, in a blood-puddled field, listening to the cries of a thousand other soldiers, praying to their gods, begging for relief, weeping for what may be their final time.

He’s not a brave man— the crash of violent ocean waves keep him alone, within his room, secure in bed till morning light forces the darkness into submission, chases the fog to its rightful place within cottony cumulus clouds or drank by parched foliage of the Outer Banks.

There’s a pain that bends him, deeply creases his forehead. It holds the anger of an inlet where ocean meets briny sound. Currents tug, push and pull, like the lust of two bodies who’ve learned sex isn’t shameful. An inlet where the remains of gutsy fishermen lie, and a father who’s smoked his last cigarette, chained himself to an anchor and thought: well, isn’t this a proper Baptism?