Cypress Branches Literary Journal - Lamar State College-Orange

But
tonight, right now, he is not lost but here, twisted across his tousled covers,
a battered but still silvery plasticized cap pistol next to his smooth small hand,
his beautiful face, delicate, startling, already the uneven but universally recognizable shape of
resignation taking form beneath his translucent eyelids and the
downturned corner of his mobile, slightly-parted, ever-silent lips,
his uniqueness his curse and unspeakable grace.
His bare chest still moves the Spiderman sheets,
and I catch at my own bare chest, already cursing my
failure to protect this shattered lamp, this hymn of love, my
beautiful broken boy who yet lies here in oblivious safe sleep;
only when I stretch out my bloodless hand to
touch his sweat-damp hair can I breathe
once, tearing one huge and ragged sob then afloat again, the despair
almost manageable, hearing the words of the women again,
they always run,
thinking
maybe . . . but not tonight.
Not tonight.
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