On Losing a Child I Never Had

On Losing a Child I Never Had

I grieve the child I never lost,

the child I never had.

In reckless youth I feared his voice; 

he filled my heart with dread.

My twenties came, then disappeared;

selfish thoughts persisted.

Friends married and had their children;

few I knew resisted.

"You'll make a great father one day,"

faded to memory,

replaced by whispers of pity,

hollowed by jealousy.

"You're the last of our family name,"

came the pressure undue.

"Fuck off," I replied silently,

though knowing it was true.

Where once I was the climbing post

for nieces and nephews,

I felt a growing emptiness

now hardening the bruise.

An inch deep and a mile wide,

the knowledge I possess,

accumulated seemingly

now for little purpose.

That once-feared voice now quiets my heart,

that looks for joy anew,

I grieve the child I never lost,

the child that was you.