Grandson

 

Grandson

(An autobiographical indulgence)

Thanks for the breast. That was good, very good

And I am satisfied. Now cover up

And go.

              To the call of kosher kitchen,

Your pots, pans, needle-and-thread and chickens

Or to pretty up for that dreamer, your man.

And hand me over to Grandma Anna. Go.

You too. Dreamer Dad. Go. Go. Go. Go Go.

To your chisel, saw and hammer and nail

That will fashion the chairs and shape the cartwheels

Of Pilate’s chariots.

                                 And will they shape today

The nice notches and the wedges to fit

One horizontal strip of wood over

Another, much longer, vertical piece

That will then be planted into a hole

Dug on the summit of that punitive mount?

Hand me over to Papa Joachim, Dad.

Hand me over, Mum and Dad to those hands

Of pure affection superimposed over

Gratitude to Yahweh and to you two

For delivering me, your son to them,

My parents’ parents. Love undiluted

By Duty, Responsibility or

Divine fiat. With no thought for Simeon

And his prophesies and visions and Signs

Of Contradiction and the foretelling

Of heart-piercing swords. Nor expectations

From me. To walk the Pharisaic path.

And more: no expectations from you yourself

Of doing right by Moses and now Gabriel.

Of shaping a messiah.

                                    For I will

Soon lose myself in the temple and then

Will magnificat give way to miserere?

Son why hast thou done this to us? Oh why?

And will carpenter Dad fashion a stick

To spank the madness out of the Son of Man?

“Get a job, a well-paying career.

Climb the corporate ladder, my son. Get rich.

Stop hanging out with that locust eating

Wild son of your Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Zach

And his megalomaniacal voice

Of one crying in the wilderness, son.

And that ragtag bunch of faithless fishermen

And tax collectors. All that hippie talk

Of love, for Christ’s sake! And saving the world!

Get real, Son of David! Remember your stock.

Did your mother and I dodge the bloody sword

All the way to a cattle shed for this?”

Oh I get your point, Dad, Mum. I get it.

Now just leave me to Joachim and Anna.

They’ve none of those hang-ups. None of those fears.

See how they hold me, change my diapers.

Lisp endearments with no fear of doing wrong.

With no expectations from me or themselves.

As they had when they were bringing you up.

They spoil me. And themselves. We’re having fun.

Ah! If only you had me before they had you!

I would have taught them how to bring you up.