Deep Kick

He looks different now.

His eyes are darker

as he pins his gaze on anonymous stars.

I wish there was something I could do to help him.

As if I could reach in

and pull him from the dark pit

that his strong body has been sinking in

for quite a long time now.

As if I could have the strength

to pull my own father from the ashes of his depression.

It seems that all I can do

is sit and grieve for what he is losing.

When sorrow has him by the throat

the sun rises and gloats

over his bowed head

and if I could I would smack the sun down

and squeeze the light out of it

until my hands were drenched

and I would cover him with gold.

I would balm him in light

I would heal him, if I could.

I feel his suffering like a

deep kick.

A sickness that has taken hold

and spread ill roots

my darkness feeds off his.

Thrown me on my back

and sweep the night over me like a cloak

dig out my beating heart

with your hands of steel

and it would hurt less than this.

I say to him in my head

“I’m sorry you have this

this disease you can’t bear

and for your sake I hope

there’s a heaven somewhere.”

I have become a starving mouth

I want to sup at his suffering

I want to take it all

consume it, draw it into myself

if it means he would stop hurting

I would eat his pain.