so so close

but worlds away

like Adam’s outstretched finger,

i know not the warmth of your touch.

that tragic scene 

longing for fusion:

to be created 

is to be separate.

who am i to blame?

how can i be both

wounded youth 

and wise adult?

it makes you uncomfortable

is it your fault, is it not

i do not know.

I’m reminded of that old fear:

who would i be

if i were born 

in Nazi Germany?

i lower my pointed finger.

raised in the new world,

you in the old.

shock.

denial.

anger.

acceptance.

i found that forgiving you…

it was like accepting a loss,

the grief final.

these roots go so deep

but that bramble cuffs you

to that rock-like dirt.

I’m done breaking my back

to pull you free.

I now walk away

and leave you be.

I love you —

But ma,

I need to be me