Ministrations of the Father by Robert Detman

I.
If I had not spent so much time thinking about it before
I was dropped on this planet with offspring and
given a short manual made up of pages of my
occasional inept fortitude, the days are now decades
past where I read hieroglyphics and discern
dictee in the ways and means. The gift is
always there, not for some, who still must
traverse sheer ice cliffs or procure implements to
get them through the most basic negotiations.
So at night my weaknesses prey upon me,
the disappointment of my choices, the sheer
dis-ease of seeing my own child, the
unwitting plaything of the whims of others
not me, and how in those troubled dreams
I can save no one, or just barely, and
awake in relief only to resurface in the
bright bounty of domesticity
II.
Being too enamored of editing, of making
the right impression though a scandalous
number of rejections have not dogged me,
I’m father in name, not yet fully recognized,
and doing everything I can to assure
I don’t spite myself or others as I mark out pages.
My ego used to be the equivalent of the Khumbu
ice fall, but it’s rather become a melting tray of
party ice. In good stead I hope to keep