Sick
I am sick with your corpse.
The sickness entered through my eyes and the infection has worked its way in to my brain.
In to my sleep,
In to my dreams.
The multiple stab wounds that went from your collar bone on down.
The stab wounds no one bothered to stitch up,
They have, in my dreams, become muted mouths trying to scream out…
For something.
I remember noticing that the slash mark,
The one on your neck,
Completely missed the bone necklace tattoo you were so proud of.
I remember walking in to a room built for maximum serenity,
Designed to comfort and sooth.
I remember approaching the steel gurney that had been draped with a sheet
And my knees buckled
For the first time in my life I lost my footing.
Your hands, looked so old.
I still can't help but wonder what they had been doing.
Nails, worn down to the quick, as if you had tried to claw your way out of something.
The 'cranial damage', the facial bruising…
You were a stranger laying there, no one I could recognize except I knew you.
And you, you who I raised as a brother/ father
(Our real father wasn't worth the flesh it took to cover him) .
I taught you to swim,
(But not far enough)
To ride a bike,
(But not far enough)
To roller skate,
(But not far enough)
I taught you what ultimately caused you to end up on a gurney,
In a room built to lessen grief.
I am sick with guilt,
I am sick with your corpse.
I am sick with the loss.
Tonight...
I am sick.
poem by Brevet Wilson
Added by Poetry Lover
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