restless, i watch the seconds tick off
the moans of my son
the pain, locked-in grief
arching arms useless
unable to reach any object of curiosity
fingers without fine motor
never to pick up needle or coin
and legs my son has
carry him nowhere
don't much serve him
but to kick the air
do i cry for him?
i think, not so much anymore but
maybe i see plain truth make
pure tears swell this fragile heart
to cry for me much more
pity me more
pity me who’ll never cheer for him
taking that first step
winning that first ball game
kissing that first girlfriend
how cruel, unjust to take from me these
sure, truth is, i cry as much now
as ever before, such streaming salty
pain of purest sorrow
come to drown me
doubled with my son’s own
innocence, and mine
of truly bitter anger
anger at a god who won't explain
anger because my son's grief is mine also
grief too damned hard to bear alone
and welcome anger… ohhh,
so much easier to justify
why life is ever unfair
J.H. Lee
May 2011
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