You’ve lost your son
so you’ve earned this wound,
like salt in the eye
it stings like hell.
What a rush.
Sleepwalking through grief,
you can’t help but hope
that the sticky skag chaos
will roll your red eyes back.
You denied feeling much,
feasting till dawn-
with tar in the veins
you face plant to the floor.
This backwards bequeath
of a son’s skin-popped curse-
You bear that crude warmth
and fade out,
(mumbling)
on your knees.
© Nancy Botta, 2018
Rusted Honey 
This is phenomenal!
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This… hits hard. It’s pregnant with imagery and it gives birth to those with every successive line, forging an entire world and traps you in it. Powerful, terrible and so painfully real. Thank you.
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wow. just wow.
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Sad but beautiful and deep. great talent.
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Quite Heartwrenching…..well penned.
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Beautiful. This poem made my heart wilt a little.
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