I can not write this piece: glass is all

I see: a piece just shattered that falls

sparkles, twists bright light diamond like: blood

is all I hear as my heart beats quick

out loud and my son is at my feet:

he shall not have this sight of figures

falling, I will not let that happen:

my fingers move across his soft hair

and lift eyes to mine: impossible

to imagine him not here today.

After breakfast when his father calls

 

time for daily lessons, Icarus

works equations until the king’s men

enter their home: forces eyes to move

away from the sight of all ever

known: he follows behind his father

into the heart of the labyrinth:

a feather riding on a twisted

current caught beneath it floats down safe

while still a sound, lingering longer

within the waves, that I can not name.

It is unnatural. It is man made.

 

I lose my sense within the image

hands can not cover eyes and ears except

as I pretend my arms protect him:

that morning when no one could believe

the picture true there were those in there:

who’s hands had softly brushed aside hair

and placed warm lips upon small forehead:

who’s voice had moved quick to catch lost time

cried an over the shoulder good bye:

who had sang with the radio who

had quarreled with a lover or who

 

had made love or who had forgotten

to brush teeth or who had felt the sun:

none that could imagine time would end.

Can horror be contained? I try: wrap

words around images like mother

of pearl trying to encase moments

and give them meaning: I can not write

this piece can not contain this mourning:

still, the alarm goes off to announce

another day beginning again

 

for us.