Losing You Never Ends

A poem by a bereaved mother.

My sweet son On bad days I can hear your laugh And that sweet lisp in your voice That I cherish

I see your bouncing Golden curls And all the fantastic worlds That your beautiful little mind Created That we played in

On worse days My hair is matted Nothing fucking matters I don’t bother to brush my teeth

I sink back Into this mattress And when I finally force open my eyes I’ve lost weeks

I dig so deep into myself To find the strength To refuse to think Of all the worms Wriggling round In your brain

All the black mold masking Your glassy blue eyes

Your warm smooth skin Now separating from bone

The larva of flies Burrowing holes

How dare The sun fucking rise When the light of my life Is the same temperature As the ground In which he is sleeping?

How many more fucking years Will I be forced to fear That your sweet little body Is cold?

Every day of my life, I am sorry.