it's no tonic for what you feel
but every day, son, I miss playing with you.
I have two ducks now and I know you'd love them
and learn from them (i have been whispering to them how I feel).
you are an amazing man,
wise.

the child refuses to breathe
the tears stop time
and frozen on the red face
is the image of pain
for review on one's death bed.

my son was taken by an impossible cruel force
and
I just now stood up
after a year and a half
of crying and not breathing.

Good God,
it's sunny outside

and I'm still alive
and so is he; will he remember me?

ducks

two ducks she brought me clutched to her bosom. a beautiful woman protecting vulnerable beings yes, they are me. that gaze means something. "live until they die, asshole,' is the silent inference of motherly love. and the ducks shuttered.

mom made it to the car 2am ER visit. The advise nurse had encouraged me to drive two tows over to acquire a suppository from a pharmacist who didn't speak English (heavy on my mind was 1985, fevered in venice riding my father's shoulders at 2am looking for ear ache relief). mom and dad made it into the ER, tiny as they are... and whiskey heavy on my breath I called the doctors stupid to my hearts content.

now the ducks are imprinted on me and with sponge eyes they watch me smirk and write poetry. poor fucked ducks.