The grief will lessen,
the pain become
a mild ache, some said,
after the death
and the son dead.
Somewhat
like telling
someone
who is drowning
the substance
of water.
I cannot
measure out
the length of time
of my grief,
or how deep
the pain goes
by plunging a knife
into the wound
as if seeing
like some cake
or meat
if it is cooked.
I see each
morning dawn
shadowy,
as if ghosts
walk through
or clouds mask
what little light
I see or catch
or gone out
like puffed
out match
Even in silence
I sense his
being there
in the cool
morning air;
feel the loss
like sand
through fingers,
although his image
ghostlike lingers.
And at close of day,
when moon's
kingdom comes,
stars tell lies
by being there
when maybe
long ago they
burnt out
or were lost.
And you,
my son,
that last talk
we had,
mundane,
yet real,
tangible,
real then
as now the pain.
A FATHER TO HIS DEAD SON.