Your Young Son

Your young son died of scarlet fever
which is incorrect,
because that is a Victorian disease.
And your shrink correctly told you to picture
your young son on an island
which you can always visit,
but always have to leave.

You said, How do I get there? The backstroke?
Laughter is the best medicine.
Any port in a storm.
What the hell do I know?

I have some memories of the future
which will not come to pass,
but nothing so real-formed
as a living boy.
His gate was awkward,
but there he was running.
His stroke was erratic,
but there he was setting down
his mind.
I have nothing so solid as a wedding ring,
hiding under the cuff links, keys,
and change,
but there she is tarnishing.
Death do we part.

I am still young.
I think of your young son,
and the father I may be
someday and would I
die if he died,
and could I save him,
save the marriage
afterwards,
when all you see
in your lover's eyes
is loss?
And I think of your young son
alone on his young island, smiling,
waving at his drowning father.