Child of Suicide
He could not help but breathe in stars
and exhale flowers,
(perfumes)
to stay thoughts of stilled blood
beside the obscene ladder of the seen
never to be unseen –
plods through opaque eyes
above which she,
mother, no – womb (he insists) –
that carried him and later
he in turn carried,
lolled, a rag doll blind.
He accepts no solace
no cut flowers
(those purple abortions) –
is a chalice
of checked sorrows.
Petals in his path whisper
only glorious tomorrows.
Mountains call, rivers,
other solitudes –
skitters in the forest,
blue-jay,
red-breast, swallow.
And oh! how I love
the black hammer of his heart –
how it pummels the frail within
to a fine white strength.
There is an art to stone
a science to bone
a magic to ruin.
I long to be one of the suns
in his grand constellation,
sister blood bride
to this bonny child
of suicide
dream often the bouquets he gifts
at a distance
long as the umbilicals
of every world
including this.
