Poem By Paul Apicella
Even I grow weary of it:
The blur of pressed faces wanting
To know what it is like to have
Such a boy. It hurts. The hay scratched
And the blood slicked my loins the same
As any other. Really, what
I remember best is the tight-
Faced innkeeper who would not give
A labored woman a warm room.
No, he was not born with a beard.
None believe that he had to grow
Into the robes. And let me tell
You, the Changers know nothing of
His temper. The words that came out
Of his mouth when food was short! But
No-one asks about that, my pain
Raising a boy who just never
Learned from his Father that too much
Courage becomes a love of death.