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.

More Poems by Matthew Dickman