Tuesday, July 15, 2003

Wyatt Hellekin Knott 

A century he’d be, if not for leaps,
instead he’s just now reached maturity.

The twenty-ninth of February, born
at night, the year was nineteen-hundred two.
A storm from sea engulfed the point at Brest
and lightning struck the church in vain; he came.

At first, his folks were lost for what to do,
aghast at jutting fangs and hoary toes.
The Doctor called him ‘mongoloid’. The Priest,
he signed the cross and cursed the boy in tongues.
Though only minutes old, the child was calm.
He looked about the apse and spoke: "I know
the roots of fate and synonyms for truth;
a lexicon for generations lost
in revolutions fought to save the night."
His mother cried to see what she had wrought.
Her tears became the 'source prenom': the stain
her son would bear, and thus was Wyatt named.
His father sighed and added Hellekin,
to give the boy a lovers heart, allure.
The Priest let out a scream: "Mon Dieu! You fiends!
Just look what you have done: they’ll call him Why!"

"That’s the thing," laughed his dad, "our last name’s Knott."

(C) 2003 WHK All Rights Reserved

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