Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Undertow

The question mark still hangs
over where the rapid current flows
in strenuous calisthenics
where you spread yourself too thin
where the disconnected God kept His distance,
and how I, the brute, drove past through it all
unable to pull you back from the undertow.
Time heals, but no, not the mother-tongue of pain
not buried things, nor unthinkables,
but this is my blood
and the wound I don’t want healed
is me.

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Prompt: a suicide