My Son Matthew Poem by Paula Marsden

Don't tell me he's at peace.
Don't tell me it was meant to be.
Six-year-old boys are not lessons.
They are not sacrifices.
They are not negotiable.

The world stole him
and then had the nerve
to keep breathing.
Traffic moved.
People laughed.
Mornings arrived
like nothing had been shattered.

I am furious at clocks,
at sunlight,
at anyone who still gets
to tuck their child in at night
without knowing what that costs.

My body knows the truth:
something violent happened here.
Love was ripped open
and left bleeding
with no place to go.

Do you know what rage looks like?
It looks like a mother
standing in a quiet room
screaming at absence.
It looks like hands
that still reach
and find nothing.

He was six.
Six is unfinished.
Six is stories half-read,
teeth half-lost,
dreams still forming sentences.

So no,
I am not strong.
I am surviving a theft
that never stops happening.

Say his name
and don't lower your voice.
Say it like he mattered—
because he did.
Because he does.

And if the world is uncomfortable
with my anger,
good.
It should be.