My Son

crushed-can

My
son,
were I
to measure
the depth of my love
by the dread Gehenna of loss
each time the wind blows your image across my tired eyes,
the ocean could not contain it.
A great tsunami
would rise up;
The world
would
sink

-<>-

So
please.
my child.
let  this  be
the last lager can
I uncover while I’m cleaning.
The last drunken can that ever you concealed from me.
I don’t require such reminders
of our broken ties;
reminders
that I
lost
you

-<>-


A  fibonacci poem…

©Jane Paterson Basil

6 thoughts on “My Son

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