At  The Casket of My Son

Like a Mexican Jesus you lie wooden in your denim jeans and clean blue shirt. Can words follow the shape of the texture of your cool hard hands? Long graceful fingers perfectly carved curve, one hand over The other across your stomach. I trace their shape with my own fingers cold Seeps outward from your hands into my neck my chest And I am abstracted as remote from my body as you are yours, yet I cannot look at your face again cannot take into my eyes your eyes sewn, sealed, shut, forever.

Heywood Williams

				October 13, 1989

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