Simon, the lines of his fingers and

Face black with rich soil,

Was a gardener of men


Under the bright sun

In long rows

He planted them

Three little mandrakes

All screaming as they were

Plucked from their mother


Thomas, hands strong

and calloused,

was a carpenter


Hewer and joiner

He fashioned a son in his own image

By hammer and nail

By sweat and blood

He called it good and

He begged his creation

Be better still


I with my hands like lambskin,

Uncalloused and undirtied,

Am nothing


I sit alone in the dark

Playing with sigils and spirits

Calling them

Dismissing them

Building nothing


2 responses to “Patrilineage

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