Bluebells

Blue light ringing through

the green grass.

The bent heads of petals

are not praying

to anything or to anyone.

Only we are

standing in a field of them,

my son and me and me

holding him.

In my arms he stretches

out to the very far ends of the earth

like a radio signal

made of skin and organs,

of everything.

I was singing a song to him

I made up

about me dying.

Since yesterday he has not been

crying as much as screaming

like it is terrifying

to wake up.

It is terrifying to wake up

and terrifying to sleep

and his feet going blue in the cold

spring air

in which he is growing.

His mother is growing him

with the milk she makes all day,

spilling out in blue.

The song I am singing to him

puts him to sleep,

will put me to sleep.

Will one day burst the drum

in my ear

like a bell, very much like a voice

screaming from far off,

though you don’t know

if it’s hurting or hungry or nothing at all.