Gemino H. Abad
I.
I teach my child
To survive.
I begin with our
words,
The simple words
first
And last.
They are hardest
to learn.
Words like home,
Or friend, or to
forgive.
These words are
relations.
They are
difficult to bear;
Their fruits are
unseen.
Or words that
promise
Or dream.
Words like
honor, or certainty,
Or cheer.
Rarest of sound,
Their roots run
deep;
These are words
that aspire,
They cast no
shade.
These are not
words
To speak.
These are the
words
Of which we
consist,
Indefinite,
Without other
ground.
II.
My child
Is without
syllables
To utter him,
Captive yet to
his origin
In silence.
By every word
To rule his
space,
He is released;
He is shaped by
his speech.
Every act, too,
Is first without
words.
There's no
rehearsal
To adjust your
deed
From direction
of its words.
The words are
given,
But there's no
script.
Their play is
hidden,
We are their
stage.
These are the
words
That offer to
our care
Both sky and
earth,
These same words
That may elude
our acts.
If we speak them
But cannot meet
their sound,
They strand us
still
In our void,
Blank like the
child
With the uphill
silence
Of his words'
climb.
And so,
I teach my child
To survive.
I begin with our
words,
The simple words
first
And last.
