The Son

his father and his father and his father in waves

the man had a word for himself that wouldn’t sit quiet
a dream about a lake at night moving for miles around

the face the water held changed as wind rose
his father and his father and his father in waves

the face of the word wasn’t his but he used it
he knew it like he knew where his skin ended

the way others in his life knew him
the way his tongue played it over and over

the man had a word for himself hovering just out of reach
a dream about catching it before it flew away