His Son's Death
The dead leave messages on his answering machine.
He imagines he is wandering through a junkyard of prosthesis
and amid the debris he finds the gun.
It seems to him the important thing is to remember if
he had these dreams in the past.
Instead, he remembers his wife's face the day
they fled their home.
They were propped against someone's new Buick
when a neighbor finally took them in,
ashen and trembling in the July heat.
That house was so much like his that
he nearly wept;
he could see his second story window; his son with a shotgun and a
The neighbor was understanding but insisted on
calling the police because
someone had to take control of
He watched the heat rise off the car tops,
watched the cops march in and take his son out,
his body on a small stretcher, his feet
dangling like a baby's.
In spite of what he was told, he wonders how
his son could have fired through his own head with
But in the debris of his waking hours he finds no answer;
nothing at all,
nothing but silence.