The podium by Ethan Fishbane
To approach a podium with trembling hands
And an achy stomach,
Is the only way to approach a podium.
I find myself constantly situated, vertical, erect behind a varnished platform amidst
a sea of starving eyes. Needy, starving eyes of needy, starving people and the needs
and the eyes all blend into this one needy, starving Cyclops.
And that Cyclops, then, is my beautiful baby son. His want becomes my very own.
His cry rocks my mind and his voice strikes at the gong where lives my heart.
And so as you look out at your child, who waits, feet tipping out the back of his
oversized loafers, you push down the vomit bubbling in your gut and still
your hands and you open your mouth.
And you sing.
The song is lyrical and verbose, full of words and sounds. Gruff, yet delicate.
Truthful, but eloquent. You begin to promise.
You promise your one and only one what your one and only son needs.
Your song is hypnotizing. It has to be. Remind him who you are. Remind him what
you are capable of. Remind him of how you, and you alone brought him into
the world.
The lyrics are memorable and within no time your son is singing along, but his voice
is that of thousands, no, millions, chanting, singing, screaming the words that you
swapped for regurgitated acid just minutes before.
The Cyclops sings.
So slowly unclench the smoothed, wooden sides of the tower you stand behind and
raise your arms. Let your first clench. Or maybe raise an open palm. You might
even choose to clasp both hands above your head. The victory cry goes out.
Slowly you elevate to meet the gaze of the eye below you and inhale the trust and
devotion that flows heavy like the wind. Frozen in this moment, a world of
perfection melts forward into the future.
A podium waits.
You do not.