the boy is possibly
dead already and almost
certainly dying and still
the box that holds his body
is thrown into the water
ten years old
you understand
and drugged and bound and raped
and i am spitting in the
face of god
i am sitting next to my son’s bed
and listening to his
gentle breathing
i am finding the point
at which i would
kill without regret
in the crush of
early morning fog
in this country of
missing fathers i am
waiting for myself
the dead have
all been born as
birdsong here and the
god of starving dogs
paces my street with a
young girl’s blood
staining his
smile
i let the curtain
fall back quietly
let the light
of the poem flicker
and gutter out
but always a half-beat
too late
the house is on fire
without warning
the baby is awake and
screaming
and all the doors are
locked from the
other side
this is the story i
remember
you telling
the final psalm in the
book of rusted chrome
and i never asked
to sing it
never asked to
have it sung
to me
there is still
so much silence i
am hoping to hear
