To Talk About It. Poem by Terry Collett

To talk about it
will help your grief,
the therapist said.

But each time
I talk about your death,
my son,

it opens up a wound
full of images,
echoes of last words

tormenting talk
of last time,
and things unsaid,

and no final farewells,
no last moment hugs
or utters of love yous.

Just the real,
the last words so normal,
so banal,

promises of a tomorrow
which came in a coma sleep,
and final departure

into the big sleep of death,
and that last eased
out breath,

and flat-lining heart,
to pain me
and trying to tear

me apart.
Talk about it,
she said,

so I did,
over and over
from all angles and sides,

and grabbing out
for other words
to explain,

but none can carry,
my son,
the weight of pain.