A Prayer For My Son

Since Harry Potter isn’t the only young man who might need

The help of a Patronis, and since I’d never abandon you—my son—

To cast alone a spell I too can cast, I now write this poem as a prayer for you:

May your shoulder always be perfect to cry, laugh, or sigh upon;

May light across your eyes bewitch any eyes you desire to light with desire.

May your lovers find that missing you stings far harder than forgiving you:

Remember their jealousy is just the sincerest sign of having fallen so true

In love with you.

Never notice with alarm, my son, those too timid

To admit their fascination for you;

Never rue those friends who lace or chase 

Utter admiration with some harmless spite.

May you never doubt those who still trust you

More than you doubt yourself, somehow;

And let those who broke your heart worst

Their chance to try to mend it.

Please realize—as my son—lovers cradled in your bed could never

Hope for safer, more certain sensuality; know how lovers you fear were

Lost to time are lovers worst heartbroken: they left for they know that

They have lost your heart.

Understand all sons and daughters shall always listen to you closer

Than lovers; they’ll know with time each purpose behind

All of your lies. Only have them with civilizations’ true Mad Royalty

—such royalty raises empires for men like us.

And finally, may the depth of your forgiveness run

As deep as your arrows of indignation fly far; may you

Always find a poem to comfort a wayward son you

Find you’ve found, somehow, while traveling

Through time.