Whenever we’re alone he asks me questions,
says the nicest things – like that I really listen –
and I swell with pride at the idea
that I’ve inspired him to do the same
But the questions get tougher and I am not his mother,
not even blood kin, and when he looks up,
and I see he’s shed the grin, and he almost laments
but that doesn’t make sense, I dig my nails in.
Not yet into his teens and almost lost
to genuine analysis – numbed by the usual means
by counterfeit, by anthropocentric blindspot,
and I sigh at the idea that the all-engulfing they
will likely have its way.
He believes there is a logic to everything,
cannot imagine things that don’t have reasons.
Most likely he’ll never see that logic and language
are more than related – in fact the same word
in the culture that shaped us; on closest inspection
there is no rational inflection, no premise
for the premise
that the universe is rational.
I want so to hug him and explain this –
that we think the way we think because,
but I settle for a pause, not ready
to bite the bullet even for his sake
and I lie to myself. Maybe next year. . .
if he’s still awake