Do you want to see your son again?
Open your door to see him, then, plant
a kiss upon his head,
Or see him mangled in a hospital bed,
That’s if you’re lucky.
15 feet, that’s not too high,
40 feet, 65 feet,
Gliding down slowly like leaves in October,
Bright colors pulled by gravity to meet
brown, crumpled ends.
He tried to tell you, didn't he?
No?
What’s the call out of nowhere,
The ghost behind a long stare,
The random text? No, this isn’t fair,
But it’s also not inevitable.
Breathing’s not a task for the
unconditioned soul –
A class on living is not available,
And books can bite as bees can sting;
Academia’s swaying swing.
There’s help, there’s hope, there’s half
a chance,
But nothing can bridge the winding
ravine that
He’ll soon be heaped at the bottom of.
So.
How badly do you want to see your son
again?
Badly enough to listen?
Badly enough not to leave?
Badly enough to love?