I can't believe
how raw I feel
despite the length
of unwound time.
The gripping heart,
like fingers
squeezing tight,
the same flow up
behind the eyes,
the same sensation
around the throat
like one about to choke,
like the inhalation
of flameless smoke,
the opening up
of wounds one thought
were healing,
that rawness,
that deep plunging in,
that cold hurt feeling
still sinking in.
O my dear one,
my dead son,
O you just beyond
my reach or seeming so,
tell me where you are
that I may go.
No, no,
I know,
time's hand
will tick it
soon enough,
I guess,
whether months
or years or countless
decades, like ocean's wide.
Still raw,
still seeking
that place to weep,
that place to hide.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
I can't believe
how raw I feel
despite the length
of unwound time.
The gripping heart,
like fingers
squeezing tight,
the same flow up
behind the eyes,
the same sensation
around the throat
like one about to choke,
like the inhalation
of flameless smoke,
the opening up
of wounds one thought
were healing,
that rawness,
that deep plunging in,
that cold hurt feeling
still sinking in.
O my dear one,
my dead son,
O you just beyond
my reach or seeming so,
tell me where you are
that I may go.
No, no,
I know,
time's hand
will tick it
soon enough,
I guess,
whether months
or years or countless
decades, like ocean's wide.
Still raw,
still seeking
that place to weep,
that place to hide.
A FATHER TALKING TO HIS DEAD SON.
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