suicide poetry

my mother taught me that every night
which keeps
my son is dead and i am going blind
lady, your heart has turned to dust
do not grieve that it is over
to be able to see every side of every question
the little white prayers
blossoms of babies
leave the lovely words unsaid
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
i expect you
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
to clothe the fiery thought