Nocturne: June 1st

How do you tell your children “Your father is dead?”

He raised his arms almost accepting gods light.

A child’s soul tainted with red, my words can’t be unsaid.

Ruler straight line, your body motionless in bed.

My hands cupped, body shaking, lips pursed tight.

I ask the doctor, “Can you tell my children their father is dead?”

Muffled emotions in preparation, I can’t cry. So they can cry instead.

No matter how strong I am, I lost my husband. I cry in spite

of a child’s soul tainted in red, of words that can never be unsaid.

Dial God’s messenger, wine soaked up communion bread.

A pastor walks me to them. Maybe if I ask, perhaps he might

tell my children their father is dead.

Don’t cry. My words leave now vacant hearts forever unfed.

It was June 1st. The first day of summer turned to night.

My words that can never be unsaid, a child’s soul tainted in red.

How do you hold broken pieces of children while holding the dead?

My children motionless in bed, they died just like he did tonight.

Why didn’t anyone offer to tell my children their father is dead?

Tainted children’s soul, the words that can never be unsaid.