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 and Naval officer.  She lives in south Florida with her husband of 32 years where she writes poetry and creates visual selfie art.  She misses her son, Dashiell, who died suddenly in 2ol8.

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