First giver.(Poem)

 
First giver 
 
   Enter the past with all its variable light 
   and shade, a tunnel of ferns and evergreens, 
   wet open meadows, fields that have known blight 
   and broken bottles left from angry scenes. 
 
   Mother, the shame is real that you confess. 
   I know it too: failed love, the bite of lies 
   returning after years. I know the mass 
   of accusations and catastrophes. 
 
   It's good we didn't know them starting out: 
   you that a son would die, a ...