The fear ‘n your face, that I may never get
your riddle, yet exposed the urge in your heart.
No healthier spring could nurture love’s floret.
‘Love, son’ you said, ‘is the ability
of someone to take someone else’s bullet’.
And that was the one thing you taught me,
the only thing that plays your undone part,
and that refreshes your echoing voice
in my small head. You paused. And then you start-
-ed again: ‘Grant the bullets but one choice;
the more the hit, the stronger you become.
It separates you, a real man, from boys.’
You went off, not recalling your proud plum,
and left me taking the bullets for mum.