When my son died
I was devastated by
the colossal waste
that was his mind.
That rare nonjudgmental
visionary kind.
My flattened affect belied
a manic hemispheric need
to understand his death.
When my son died
I became less human.
Existed anesthetized
by pills and booze and doubt.
Garish makeup my disguise as
I contemplated the accident.
His body scattered,
mutilated pieces traumatized
beyond recognition.
Witnesses whispered “suicide “
at over one hundred miles per hour.
But his body was never identified
before the crematorium took him.
Some days I wonder if he’s still alive,
as I embrace the relief
of being childless.

Image credit:KIMBERLY McNeil

Digital Kimberly (McNeil) is a retired physician and Naval officer who now freely pursues her artistic interests, namely poetry and self(-ie) digital photography.  She lives in crazy fun southwest Florida with her husband Dave and misses her son, Dashiell, who committed suicide in 2ol8, just days before starting college.

 

Influences:  Edgar Allan Poe, David Baze, Cindy Sherman and Edward Hopper.

Religious faith:  none

Super Power:  common sense