For a Fatherless Son You will be aware of an absence, presently, Growing beside you, like a tree, A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree— Balding, gelded by lightning—an illusion, And a sky like a pig's backside, an utter lack of attention. But right now you are dumb. And I love your stupidity, The blind mirror of it. I look in And find no face but my own, and you think that's funny. It is good for me To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung. One day you may touch what's wrong The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush. Till then your smiles are found money. 26 September 1962 —Sylvia Plath --

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