Daniel’s Room

July 15, 2016

The sun crashed in on Daniel’s room
pooled Scotch in his oubliette
beat him hard about the eyes
and thudded on his thin blanket.

A ghost caressed my Daniel’s throat
purpling his tissue skin.
His cold tongue sought my Daniel’s ear
to pour the dank sweet poison in.

I wasn’t there when Daniel died
though I marched and bought a piece of quilt.
I’ve stood in churches; I have tried
to expiate survivor’s guilt.

Now they say you live with it
it can be managed, beaten back.
With antivirals and some luck
you’ll succumb to a heart attack.

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