Even though gender is a construct beyond
the reproductive organs - I need to respect
the hero, the sacred masculine
as it has been witnessed here.
The real man who goes out to the garden
to build a wooden box for tomato stakes
come summer.
The man who takes an afternoon nap
before he prepares supper
who knows when I am sick before I do
who keeps the TV volume down
when I take a nap.
Who held, fed and changed our first born
while I went to the theatre,
who survived the highway-to-office battles
for fifty years, the endless sales calls,
unmentionable skirmish in the belly,
who had the insight to admit he couldn’t stay
in the manager’s chair without slipping
into that alcoholic night. Who realized
he never wanted to be a stranger to his children.
The sacred masculine holds the ability
to fix the gate or vacuum cleaner
look for the best hotel, weed the garden
coach kids how to kick a soccer ball into the net
listen to the troubles and achievements of friends,
buy birthday cards, potatoes or eggs
and allow the ‘other’ a seat on the subway
without spreading.
The sacred masculine adapts to the world
as it is, his level gaze informing
the warrior of the weapons required
who will never win fame because
he didn't take a gun and kill something.
.
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