Wishes from a Distant Son

Mother, grief has stolen your angels –
cherubs and seraphs meant to sing
your strength and victories aloud.
See why you are innocent of your
identity. I cannot say you’re brittle
for grief to grind into dust, too light
to air into an atmosphere where
demons with protruding teeth call
your name, like a demanding child,
shameless and soulless to have pity
upon his mother, a way of lending
to the Lord. Aloud: woe to your grief.
Cursed be the distance sundering us.
I mean to say I want solitude to mean
a name of your neighbour, looking
after you in my absence till we live
in a chamber of joyful songs, sung
to a bird in full flight in darkness.
Mother, I want to see you singing aloud.