Son’s Nightmare

I see a hand. It flows and grows
Over my head.
Flowers and lovers, I dreamed,
All living and dead
Lined on the palm of the hand.

Its a hand of my father — my home,
An echo of which I become,
It grabs me behind, by my neck.
Cracks go through my porcelain head.
But I fight, I resist, lucid all the way through,
Before it closes its fist
I admit —
“I’m not you, I’m not you”…