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

Kimberly McNeil is a retired physician who now pursues her artistic interests, namely poetry and self(-ie) digital photography. She lives happily in southwest Florida with her husband of 34 years but misses her son, Dashiell Patrick, who committed suicide in 2ol8, just days before starting college.

 Favorite poem, “Alone” by Edgar Allan Poe.