Rituals of a Son


in his suicide forest
i collected seeds
and grew a garden inside myself
thick with wilted things

he is a reaper unsated
an unworthy god

who harvests the white of my bone
and scatters soul-ash and grief
as feed for the coming

he manicures the place in me
where men lay down to die
a conflict zone
overrun with forgotten flesh
and discarded weapons of pleasure

i am a patchwork body
pieced together from fragments of  hi(s)tory
with thick and binding seams
of blood and vein
threaded loose like time

i leap
from edge of home
to nothing
falling apart down
a moon
only ever momentarily whole

in the silence
of un/becoming
i cultivate moonlight fruit
spoiled by the son
weeping. poison sap
to slay the waiting mouth/s
i meet beneath the stars

nothing ever dies here
it lingers on like the scent
of our mother’s blood between us

5 thoughts on “Rituals of a Son

  1. i think the poet is trying to tell us how broken and shattered and flawed (possibly suicidal also) he is. but he’s also absolutely alright with being these unusual/unnatural things, because it is inherently present in him; possibly inherited from a father-like figure, who is also, in quite a peculiar fashion, lifeless yet alive. which is why you’re drawing a parallel between wilting leaves/dying forests and a the poet himself, who is incomplete and flawed in the sense that his physical has been broken and sewn so many times over, he is unsure of what home (being truly himself) feels like.


    1. is this even nearly close to what this poem is really trying to say? im guessing my interpretation is either too superficial or absolutely baseless


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