How To Love A Boy For Whom Blue Is Not Merely A Color

Deadness sits on his wrist;
Thin slits of spilling redness; the life water
That crawl onto his palms
And falls from his fingers
But does not reach the earth
To form
That cataclysmic bond between
The life giver and the returner of life

She -the mother- scorns his death

Deadness sits on his throat
Face tightened in grief
As the mother’s child; life
Flees from his eyes
And deadness reaches into his mouth
To pull, forcefully, the breath from his lungs
But the mother rejects his deadness
And waves the breath into his throat