The Child is Father of the Man

I am not an ignorant man. I know that black pod is a fungus,

not some pestilence brought on by an enemy’s curse;

I know that malaria is spread by mosquitoes, not palm oil.

Yet when I stopped at the road, I couldn’t see my son anywhere.

I dropped the sack of cocoa beans and ran.

I ran until I found him, face down in the dirt.

I lowered my water bottle to his lips.

He glanced up at me as if he was ashamed.

He didn’t tell me the bag was too heavy,

just as I never told my father. I raised him up

and carried him to the village. I took him to the clinic.

The doctor said we were lucky he’d collapsed.

Now, when I lift the white beans onto my back,

I pray for my son’s spine. I pray that the pruning will bring

a bountiful harvest and that the men will still call me Cashman.

Most of all, I pray that one day I will be able to look my son

straight in the eye and not regret my foolishness.

Andy Kissane