Prodigal Son
When I'm awakened by snores,
I think I'm back home with the pigs.
Animal warmth, plenty of food,
and the smell of clean mud
is my dream.
Disillusioned with the scent
of workers and consoling beer,
I'm no poet anymore.
My fine fingers
have been damaged building castles
with nothing but my nails.
My fine ideas asphyxiated
turned to ashes in the exhaust of a bus,
frozen in the freezing dawn.
Do you know, Father,
what it is to rise and rest
in darkness?
I who spurned the dawn
dream of the black rooster, the fighter
the white dog tore to pieces.
Now I'm the one plucked bare,
seasoning for weak broth.
I want to come home, Father.
Tell me if there is a corner
left for me. I'll sing you
the rooster's reveille,
sleep with the pigs
and eat from their trough.
I no longer fear the war.
Here, I'm buried alive,
crushed by loneliness;
not even Death respects me.
I want to come home.
Denise DeVries
© 1996 
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