Brendan Constantine

My Father Explains the Birds and Bees

“Surely I am too stupid to be a man . . .” Proverbs 30:2

First you should know it takes twenty thousand bees
to make one jar of honey. You’re lucky to be here.
And that’s saying nothing of all the birds
that end up on hats, hats like your grandma
used to wear. The second thing you should know
is when you got here, we had no idea who you were.
Most bees never meet their children. Half their lives
are spent just answering the first urge to fly. You
walked at eight months. Who knows what call
you answered. They say some birds learn new songs
their whole lives, birds with a sense of timing
and irony. There are even birds who can tell when
a poet is about to say, Enough with the birds already.
You’re my son and I love you, but that doesn’t
mean you can go around sucking flowers all day.
My dad worked in a factory for twenty years
just to make one jar of quarters so I could ask
your mom on a date, so I could buy her a sandwich
and soda while we watched a neighbor’s house
burn down because there were no televisions.
Someday you will fall in love, but before that
you’ll want a soft drink. That is, you’ll want to drink
something soft, softer than flowers, or the thought
of flowers, you’ll want to drink a person. If this
happens before you’re ready, if you get thirsty too
soon, try to drown it with something else, stifle it
with lies or music, bury it under a mountain of sugar.
Then mark the spot with something needful, like
your watch. Better yet, take mine. It doesn’t work.
It hasn’t since the day your mom and I figured out
who you were, your name and markings, when we
realized you were every wild thing we’d given up
for each other. Now say all of this back to me so
I know you listened, so I know you’re as terrified
as I need you to be.