On the eighty-first night after my son died
He came to me in a dream. I had been waiting.
He seemed happy and jovial, as he usually was,
But after a bit I began to notice something odd.
Things were protruding from his shoulders,
His neck, and his back.
Wires. Tree branches.
Vines. All tangled, wild.
I struggled to remove them,
But I just couldn't seem to get them all.
My son laughed it off, as he always had in life,
And eventually we parted.
I woke up then, it was two in the morning
And I broke down again. What have I done?
Oh my god, where did I go wrong?
James Lee Jobe