Parents of Converts
Poem by Chrisopher Patrick Nelson

The blade of study, blunt and bloody, clean and sheathe.
Your questions' quiver spent, they shiver still, and seethe.
Your thrust and parry bests their very best. But breathe.
When hearts are hardened, have them pardoned. See, you teethe,

Your baby's cradle, toddler's dradle, all they see.
Your sabre-rattle pays a paddle on their knee.
Now, Turk or Tajik, lethal logic lets them flee
In ardor's armor – you alarm her, even he.

To reach the realm it means the helmet, worn so long,
Comes off, unmasks you. No one asks you, young and strong,
Just who you might be, nor says, “Fight me.” All along,
Your home's the castle. Though no vassal, you belong.*

*A vassal rules in name only on behalf of another king.

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