elegy for my father's son

i'll stay behind and carry on the family name, press each leaf inside your folded sweaters, dust the copper from your forehead. you can write the newsletter for mother and father. pick a sans serif font. it's hard to see you in this fog, and the storehouse goods have dwindled. one of us will have to set out for supplies. the point where your footprints fade out mark a topographical map of grandmother's neck. a chalk outline for crass sentimentalists. my mind is a fistula and once again i am leaking. here we go woodgrain, interior, magic. but we’re plum out of flour. i wish you'd raised a signpost, carefully placed your Winchester in the base of the oldest tree. the very least you could have done was leave a trail of crumbs. i can't finish the baking and we have no more lamp oil. now the dogs are whining at the door. i’ll soon have to turn them out. now you are a runner. now i am our father's son.