My Son Is Dead Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Sausages, bacon, apples, pizza bread
Food's somehow lost its taste, although I've fed.
What's missing from the small domestic list
Ah, how could I forget?
My son is dead

‘Good afternoon. The weather's lovely, yes
Not often you can wear a summer dress
And after all the rain we had last week, ' my neighbour said
I smile and nod, jump through the social hoops
Inside my heart's a hammer pounding chaff
My son is dead

Will I step out in brown shoes or in red?
I've ceased to care for ordinary things
Life is a treadmill now. All skies are lead
Behind the mask I howl
My son is dead

Well, well. Another earthquake in the Med
Bombs fall on Where-was-that? On Who-were-they?
The only banner headline in my head
Tops all, all always will.
My son is dead.