Archive for April, 2015

Sons

A phone rings
clear and strong
like a bell that reminds the faithful
that God needs his praise.
Somehow he knows though
that God does not reside in this moment
heartbeats fill the silences between
sure that it will be one of those days.

Within the wash of images
a small boy jumps from a chair
into father’s arms (or at least that is the hope)
misjudging the distance he lands on the floor.
Tears sound out. No paternal presence can quell.
Jump forward to a jabbing finger into the breastbone
‘You think you are the big man?’
Anger, testosterone, a test?
The old man can still lay you low.

Cells divide, mutate and destroy
careless of our love, our hope our fear
our previous losses.
(It seems somewhat perverse that it would)
The body attacks itself.
No bended knee can stem the tide.
There is no petition that can push the blackness outside.

A phone rings
nausea rises clear and strong
like a bell..
…fuck…fuck…fuck
the word punctuates the scream.