You will know how this ends.
You will have seen this future calling from miles away.
ready your arms for the weight of his body against yours.
This is a píeta you will dream of
when everything else is extinguished.
You will have seen the ending the first time
a teacher sent a note home from school,
telling you that your 5 year old son is quieter than the rest,
needs to try harder.
You will remember watching him playing on the floor
with his brother,
You will blow it off,
ignore the note from the teacher,
crumple it tightly inside of your fist.
You will wish, years later,
that you could have held him that tightly.
The ending will start to appear to you in dreams,
right after you leave your husband for the first time.
You will smell the octane,
the coldness in the air.
You will tell yourself
that they’re only dreams.
The morning that it happens,
you will check his bed to see if it’s warm,
and when it isn’t,
you will call your sister. You will contact the police.
There’s a protocol for all of this.
And that will feel comforting.
You will give your report to the police,
It will sound tragic
You will limp out of yourself
and watch the rest from the outside.
You will spend every night with a bottle of wine
and his baby pictures.
You will hunt those photos for the smell of the gas,
for the echo of that hollow night,
for some sign that it was coming.
The dream will go like this.
You will wake on the bridge
with cars hurdling into the night.
You will take in the smell,
the thickness of the dark,
You will watch him fall,
night after night.
You will find yourself
at the base of the bridge,
wading in the rushing tide.
It’s too soon for ice, but it is so cold.
You will carry your son from the river,
notice the lightness
of his waterlogged body.
You will search his fingers for a pulse
in spite of yourself.
You will pray for the morning to murder the night,
for the suicide of the stars
to ease you awake.
and in the morning, they will find you,