Numb

Once a father had
a demon-haunted son
who hurled himself
into water, into fire.

Through what valve,
the father asked, come
these foam-mouthed
teeth-grinding convulsions?

Then a young rabbi,
who once ran demons out of a boy
into some pigs, said all is possible
to one who has faith.

Later, another father
raised his son on hikes and bikes
until one day a mad storm rose
consuming the boy from within.

This father wanted to believe
a Bible, a crucifix and a book of prayers
could stop a neck-strapped belt
hooked to a bunk and yanked, but

confirmation in May, suicide in June.
God is Love couldn't save his son.
He has borne his trials
and now he's numb.

This poem was written in March 2016, nine months after my son committed suicide. I did not include it in my book A Thursday in June (2024), which is about his suicide and the aftermath, because it seemed so formulaic and predictable, but it does capture some pretty shitty emotions, and exposes a bit of the shortcomings of a theology that rescues some kids, but not others.