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Divine Madness

My tangled words fall in sterile air,
unable to reach a woman I do not know,
whose thick hands have reached into me and,
probed and pondered the time of conception.
The gown cuts my skin with its sharp edges,
You know your son will probably get worse.
My son's divine madness takes him to
black top heights and urine soaked salva-
tion pits. Because he cannot conceal,
demons that whisper in his ear among
the pencils, papers and eight year olds.
A doctor injects me with the place
I have longed for--an imitation
junkie paradise. What was screwed in,
sucked out. He tried to choke himself? No. He
tried to cork rage with a long dog tag
chain before it spilled and burned someone. See,
he has a bit of Jesus in him.

Suzanne Frischkorn
Forthcoming in The Orange Wister Review

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