I don't deserve a poem about my grief.
My only son and daughter
they should not
should not
have died
so young.
It offends the natural order.
No matter what
how horribly I failed
to be a mother
who knew how
(I was too numb to notice—
ever choking on myself—
my unfelt feelings)
and yet
they should
should not have died
they should
have made it through
I thought they had
when suddenly
one cursed August day in ‘94
my dearest Julia of twenty-nine
she took her life
and mine—
and then
just two years hence
in tortured March of ‘96
my precious son
my David thirty-one
who suffered so
who tried to hide
his agonies
so as to spare me more
he slipped away
so near
and yet so far
keeping still
his secret illness
till the end
and afterward
O my hero!
There are no excuses.
There's no surcease
from the sorrow
not for me
I was— I am
their mother.
I had a splendid son
who sang his woodwinds
like a soaring bird
in farewell flight
who blazed so bright
and burned
in longings too intense
in dreams too great
for great great heights
whose ashes
I can not
let go
and daughter oh so beautiful
as brilliant as they come
whose presence
graced our planet
who knew the stars
while probing deep
so awfully deep within
the fearsome mysteries
of holey blackness.
Oh they were artists both—
my son the music maker
stunning improviser
talented beyond the bends
and she had such a gift
for crafting words—
how wondrous her plays
those lovely poems
homaged on a page.
I'm haunted so…
I need to say I'm sorry
for not being
more
than I
was then—
to somehow be forgiven
but I can't
cannot turn back
to do it better
do it right.
For no matter how
they say I'm not to blame
I am
I know I am
don't tell me
I their mother
otherwise.
I don't deserve a poem
though they do
but I—
I don't deserve to write it.
I don't deserve a mourning poem
to ease the pain
that stabs me
through and through
and doesn't dull—
they say death breaks the heart—
that master muscle
sans emotion—
but their deaths
monstrously
untimely
broke
my life
in two
twice over
so I could
no longer breathe
nor want to.
I die each day
with them
again
again
that awful dive
my daughter took
I cannot look
away.
I cannot find
a single saving grace
inside my self
to save my soul
cannot forgive
forgive myself
not ever.
I don't deserve
a life
after
their deaths.
I don't deserve a poem
about
my pain.
I don't deserve
I don't…
I can't
go on…
(March,2014)
[Dedicated to Julia Lynne White- astrophysicist, poet, playwright (February 7,1965- August 9,1994) and David Ellis White- composer, woodwind player (September 3,1963- March 8,1996)]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So very sad. Yet so lovingly written. They may be gone but love them still greatly. They will know.
Thank you, Colleen, for your warm words..