When Children Panic, meditation on the nature of death and how it is sometimes different. Options

[saore]

When Children Panic


Panic is not attached to the memory
of troublesome times, like surgical tape
sticks to the skin.

Analyst ask you to lay down and close
your eyes, but your thoughts drain
and you can’t remember

if anyone took the bandages off your mother
before she was put in the coffin. (Was she buried
with the catheter strapping?)

Grandmother would say: “Men have a long tube,
it’s for burying seeds.” I would ask why some fruit
never fell from the tree, they rotted on the branch,

as if resisting the imagination,
and open doors. “They need to be picked,”
was all she’d say.

[Guest_ohsteve_*]

Sergio, wow...I was impressed also,

I didn't want to see him lieing there,
dressed in his best suit. He didn't dress
like that I said. He wore jeans and plaid shirts
that smelled of old spice and licorice.

I cried when I finally was forced up
on the predeu, he had these spots and no one
would tell me they were from the disease.
I thought he was in the process of shedding skin.

I cried again when they took him from the room,
where are they going? I asked quietly.
To the grave yard; I thought that must be like
a prison, or a dump for lost uncles. I miss him still.

I hope you don't mind adding my thoughts here of when my Uncle Jim died,
I was barely old enough to understand that he was gone.

Your poem took me back to that period of time.

Thanks and you take care
Steve