Etched in my Brain
Face down on the bed, my son,
arms outstretched and legs grown cold.
One tainted pill, did you in
at twenty-four years old.
I quickly turned you over
and looked deep into your eyes.
“He’s gone!” I screamed. “He’s gone! He’s gone!”
with anguished, high-pitched cries.
I peered into your open mouth
with vomit on its side
and horror overtook me then
as part of me had died.
I ran around the kitchen
like wounded, helpless prey.
I cursed out loud and whimpered some
when they took you away.
I carry this, etched in my brain
and guilt, since last I checked,
a father’s job is to love
but mostly to protect.
© 2021 by Ken Slesarik
All Rights Reserved
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