to go on. into some vast darkness, vast obliteration. have you been obliterated? nonsense. post traumatic babble. no war time. only peace time. down time. dead time. long dead, you died a long time ago. was it in the hospital with the sweat of his brow or when you betrayed them all? when you walked away from the boy’s death or when you allowed hers?
or when you stopped dreaming? or when they laughed at you and your clothes? when she told you you smelled like a pool or when chose to no longer speak to you? how did it all happen? the wonderment. you, astonished that you are not alone. without punishment. without grief. without respite. to combat the vastness of it, the sense of hopelessness and judgment. to be cast out when so clearly in the bosom of all that loves you.

the fucking luck of it. run out. sparse and empty. you’ve ruined it. nothing else but this. no grandeur for you, no promise of more for them. wretched as you are. piecemeal. all that you are, just barely enough for them to survive on.

recently he fell and smashed his teeth and his mouth was bloody and i was horrified and felt nothing and thought to myself they’re only baby teeth they’re only baby teeth and afterwards when the dentist finally saw him and told me he would need his front teeth removed and walked out of the examination room to find an oral surgeon that could take a two year old i held him closely and wept i could not hold it anymore i could not hold him any tighter but i did in the end just before the surgeon needled his gums and the nurses tried to tell him it was going to be ok i had my legs wrapped around his and my arm gripped his little hands and he screamed while i pulled his head tight against my chest my darling boy my darling boy they ripped your teeth out because we had to and later much later weeks later i whispered to him while giving him his vitamin i am sorry my son i didnt save you it was my fault i couldnt save your teeth and he had his arms wrapped around my neck and fingers tucked in my hair and he replied no daddy no it was my fault i broke my teeth it was my fault and i write this now the day after and i weep all over again

sweet baby boy, o son o mine, the pain you bring me, the fear and joy, the absolute hysteria i feel holding your body in my hands.

my little one, first born, my young lady, my dream child: you’ve turned six in the midst of the chaos of your brother’s lost teeth. i am so sorry my love that it has been so horrible. if i could take it all, i would. you are the shine in my eyes, you are the curve of my smile, the gentle pause between each beat of my heart. i hold you and it is as if i am renewed, i am reborn, i am here, at last. you bring me down to earth little one, you bring life to this old weary ghost.

he said i live in a hurricane of language and because of that i will always be trauma, i will always remember it in new and horrific ways, there will always be poetry in my despair, i will haunt and be haunted.
and i replied, don’t touch my children, leave them be. take from me, take your pound of fucking flesh from me.

is this what we should do, on the days when we’re together and she can be with the children? should i abscond and disappear into this, this difficult thing that is so very frightful and alluring and impossible? ah the madness of it, to want so desperately but not be able to, what impotence!

and i cant even reach out to your children, so many years have gone by, grown so far from your son, never really close to your daughter. i always felt the odd one out, always thought i saw a slight shift in their gaze when i opened my mouth and spoke to them truly, as i was, as i had thought they knew me to be, unencumbered. but at your wake and at your funeral i realized: we are never unencumbered, we are always uncomfortable and bothered and hindered, we are never quite right in our own skins.
your son, in fragments, told me of feeling your presence in a room so strongly that it frightened him out of his wits. he told me, watching the casket being closed was so difficult because it was truly the last time he would ever see you. out of nowhere between the plates of served food afterward, he whispered, how memories of you came and went in his mind, how he couldn’t grasp any one of them tightly enough to keep in focus.
all this in the face of your death, all this lost in a day of stoic grieving and formality. i never quite know what to make of these things, i never quite know what to make of myself, i never quite know how to be to fix it, any of it: his life, your death, my sense of obligation and detachment, or the odd place where it all sits awkwardly waiting to be resolved.

i am still broken. no i’ve finally broken myself. i’ve shattered myself. i’m ruined amongst the pieces of who i used to be and i’m trying to fit the pieces together. i am trying to make sense of myself. i am trying to be.
when my daughter hurt herself, i told her i had becomevery scared. she said that i didnt sound very scared. and how can i tell her? how can i tell her that it’s all despair and madness and cacophony? how do i tell her that i’m coping.
what an ugly fucking word. what a joke i’ve become.

there are things i let go of everyday. trivial things. monumental things. i let go. my uncle, onset of cancer. my father, mystery stomach pains. family i’ve estranged myself from for decades at this point.
and then there are things i cannot. things i should know better and let go off, but i won’t. i can’t. call it pride, call it what it is: stupidity, but mine. mine.