Stockholm Syndrome

My son stolen under cover of night, you took flight the way a fire does at first ashamed and covering its smokey light and then aflame and claiming its right to burn a house’s life is unassailable. I do not blame you, like Patty Hearst you found the beauty in the hole in which she held you, with its door of muddied feathers, the gag of hemp, devices for indoctrination modified from Plato, clasps of metal forged to disallow all shadow, voices proclaiming forms fantastical. You emerged like Patty gun at hip with the flag she wove for you unfurled and taken by the wind. There’s so much I am reminded of to tell you when her wax has melted from your ears and you are blinking at the sun’s real light, like how it was to hear the wet slap of tyres on the road those nights I lay awake worrying, or stories of communist refugees who survived their re-education, or … no matter, I know you will rise and kill her as you have killed me and I will have the advantage of having died first and lived the death knowing that I did not buy you nor sell you to some ideology that a mad baker baked without yeast, without an oven, with nothing to leaven it with the warmth of what is human in an idea. What sad bread she has baked, your mother, not bread that Christ broke that was his body, no, not even the ordinary bread of good intention that has gone wrong.

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