poetry

Family bonding.

low angle view of man standing at night

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

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4 thoughts on “Family bonding.

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