The Bat Grave, or Talking with My Son About Living

treading the dull razor line
that’s hastily drawn
whenever we mention death

still young enough to feel
faint echoes of that communal hollow
from whence you sprung not so long ago
kicking, screaming, wondering in fever-pitched frustration
     why this now?

i only listen;
     answer with tender brutality

yes, it will happen to me
     to your mother
          to your sister

yes, other people will live
     in our house
          after we are gone

yes, even batman will die

i know, but even batman will die

for tonight, you don’t believe me

and that’s ok

The Bat Grave, or Talking with My Son About Living

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