Son Of Caeneus Poem by Arthur H Rowley

Between handfuls of scented soap
I will scrape the woman from my skin
until I am blistering and breathless.
My dermis is a spider web of scar tissue,
lightning strikes everything eventually
and it has left my skin polygraphed by Pinocchio himself,
when he asks how to be a real boy
I will tell him all I have learnt of this creature within me,
invite him on the journey,
call him my plus-one to manhood.

The days like this are almost a gift,
certainty and suffering so often arrive hand in hand,
if I am to know exactly who I wish to be
perhaps steps can be made towards achieving that.
Yet I cannot bring myself to think this a kindness,
here, the night is too still
and aching with questions unanswered,
if I go too soon
bury me under the name I chose,
know me and the being I was,
mourn me as your son or friend
and nothing greater.

After the fire hits
and pulls everything I was from these bones
I will breathe a sigh of relief again,
accept the peace of this charcoal body.
When I am sat beneath the cover of earth,
charred and smouldering,
I will ask Life
"What will you make of me?
A man?
Or a child playing pretend as one?
Am I no more than a sheep in wolf's clothing? "
She replies,
"No, the question is this: what will you make of yourself? "