top of page
  • Anxious Poets Society

Elegy for a son

I remember your delicate brown skin, and the fresh fluid surrounding your form.

You looked unreal, as you grasped at my chin

you were so small, but your heart was so warm.

A few days from then, I saw you again.

Your shape, once so darling bright, had ceased it's grasping and mewling motion,

and I knew you had been lost to the night.

Even if there's nothing out there after this. A world without you isn't a world.

There can be no smiles, no joy, no laughter so long as my son sleeps in death's arms, curled.

You would be four today, I still keep track.

The spot in my heart will never be filled. I wish to visit soon, in the deep-black; I wait for the days where my heart has stilled.

They will come soon, I promise. Very soon.

You won't be alone. We'll have matching tombs.


Lamar Johnson is a writer based in Virginia. He cites his influences as Wordsworth, Milton, Pope, and Blake.

#skin #small #unreal #heart #warm #night #world #death #promise #alone #tombs

33 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

I. Your skin is wet paste sticking to a hospital wristband Under an empty wide gaze that sees nothing. Though I imagine how pretty you must look With your friends at the park, Lying on a picnic table,

blank paper sheets waiting to be filled on the study table, she picked her pen up every ink burst’s her spell word by word, she started weaving kingdom—her utopia. before her eyes, an ethereal scenery

More powerful than a locomotive, able to leap reality in a single bound, it’s a nuclear bomb, it’s a super computer: it’s the age-old strain of virulent addiction. Once in its ravenous and raptor claw

bottom of page