Good Fridays

Empty vessel of unborn thoughts,
Enclaves of darkness,
Moon and sun shining as one.
I did not kill Jesus, but I killed my son.
I did not kill Jesus, but I killed my father.

I breathe in and out, like a pump,
Automaton absorbing not
The fresh smells of lavender
Nor the violets’ fragrance.
Sights and sounds
Around me abound
But leave me untouched, unscathed.
Remember? Why deny?

The baby is asleep upstairs in her cot.
Seven months pregnant, I clean windows,
Vacuum, scrub floors, lift my arms,
I climb up and down.

Charles Aznavour sings
"Dansons joue contre joue'
Let’s dance cheek to cheek, my son.
Breathing machines, heart monitors,
Nurses, tubes, separate us.
We shall never dance
My son
Cheek to cheek.

We bought him a pipe for Father's Day.
I said: "J' espère qu'il ne va pas casser sa pipe."
He did. My father's heart stopped.
Smells, sights and sounds leave him cold.
I am responsible for his death.

Happy Father's Day!
Bonne Fête des Pères!
In the morgue,
Cold, at peace,
At rest.
Our father who art in Heaven
My father…
I did not kill Jesus, but I killed my son.
I did not kill Jesus, but I killed my father.
The moon and the sun shone
On empty vessels of unwanted thoughts,
Enclaves of darkness and light
At last remembered.

© Copyright: Christiane Conesa-Bostock