I didn't have to kill my inner child before becoming a father, and so I didn't. Maybe if I had my kids would be stronger. But I didn't have to and so I didn't. Maybe I couldn't. Deemphasize certain needs and dependencies, yes, but conquer them I couldn't. And now I see that my father hadn't killed his inner child either –No wonder I couldn't make sense of his dead childhood. It was never dead –only swept under the rug at times. Mostly he had the courage to be miraculous: Like the moon in his backlit Gethsemane with its gold-jade nightlight where they slept so close to flight I could feel it breathe in them, the love they longed for, becoming in their coming together the parents we adored.
Gerald Yelle is a member of the Florence, Massachusetts Poets Society and lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. His books include The Holyoke Diaries, FutureCycle Press, and Mark My Word and the New World Order, Pedestrian Press. He has an e-chapbook at Yavaneka Press: “Industries Built on Words,” and a chapbook forthcoming from Finishing Line Press