for T.C.

Forget pious blessing chatter.

The nice-nice that assures polite company

the world still spins properly.

 

It doesn’t.

It’s off kilter.

Your son is gone.

All is not right

in the world.

 

Should you take my advice,

don’t just set it aside.

Cast that shit away.

 

Throw the mother-fucker

to the furthest reaches

of the field,

or the river bank,

or your tiny backyard,

keening as your arm

whips back in shock.

 

Don’t just forget

the pious chatter:

smother it.

 

Let it fall

to the hard ground.

Place your workman’s

heel on it

and crush

the damn thing.

 

Lift your foot,

stomp the remains,

guttural excess

leaking unbidden

from your throat.

 

What is left to you,

what is left in you,

is nothing

but surrender:

botched

ragged

animal

deafening.

 

There are no blessings.

Not today.