there is the old pain. the old tongue. blood and its heavy hand.
its spread fingers. its hunger for concrete. its fear
of containment. of commitment to the body. its slide
love made flesh: object permanence. your boy: silent and sullen.
your boy: long limbed.
as a well.
your boy. between your waking and his last
sleeping there is the bared throat
of a hungry god. a trillion cells
stalling. arresting the cardiac, the heartbeat
of your womb made flesh made fire.
the unbuckling of the sky. rain. rain. a memory
of the water. the bodies in the water. the spirits on
the water. the water: mother you cannot name.
tongue you cannot swallow.
there is silence. its heavy hand. its closed fist. its yawning mouth.
there is a .357 caliber
(where is your boy?)
a .38 Special
(have you seen him?)
(you just sent him to the store.)
a .45 caliber
(how long could it take?)
a .40 caliber
(maybe you should call)
a 12 gauge
(just to make sure)
a .54 caliber
(he is, still.)
and the names they will not call your son on the news:
he who takes out the trash
after only two reminders.
he that saves money in case of ______________________ .
he of the ever extended hand.
uncontested Call of Duty champ.
boy that smiles. boy that sings. boy that beat
boxes in shower, off key and proud.
boy that is your body outside of your body.
dreamer. beloved. child.