Metanoia

If

          If

If I were angry
I might be able to rid myself
of the lump that weights my words
in my throat, keeps me
from feeling what I say,
as I report your absence
to co-workers, who murmur
empty words of comfort.

Why is it I cannot dredge up
the fierce hate of hurt,
the pride of self
that flings your actions
at your feet, denies
my own involvement in the
need you had to leave?

I sit in your room and stare
at the walls that once absorbed
the harshness of rock’s
screaming vibrato.
Silence stares back at me,
speaks of the times
my screams met the tempo
of your music with anger,
demanding you grant silence.

Now, you have removed your music
far beyond the limits of my ears,
leaving a silence that screams
louder than your music once did.
I long to feel the pounding beat
of cresting sound reverberate
through the walls once more.

The anger that fueled
parental fury has dissipated
like the echo of your footsteps
across the porch, heard before
you entered the door to greet
me with a son’s kiss.

I leave the door ajar,
fall asleep on the couch
as I wait endlessly for
the sound of your return.