Birthright

I do not want you to be brave, my son.
Not in the way of men,
roads paved in burnt flesh 
scorched to the roots, 
soles mucking through
blood and oil.
 
I wrapped for you an inheritance,
arteries wound like ribbons
around your blooming body,
the courage of creation
beating between our neighboring hearts,
in the uncharted dark of our bodies.
 
I want for you the bruise of new love,
that wobble of tenderness,
unabashed in the morning light, 
basking skin to skin
in our first glimpse, 
and through the window, 
whispers of summer wind stirring 
dandelions into frenzies, 
seedlings teetering onward,
shedding alongside us one life for another.