Child of Suicide   

He could not help but breathe in stars                   
       and exhale flowers,
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,
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.