Sons in Suits


It was always a struggle to get my son into a suit until now.

Now he did so without resistance.

Even when I pushed the tie too tightly to his neck, he didn’t wince or persist for a change of clothes by encircling my wrist with his fingers.

I was able to do his top button without worrying that he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

It didn’t matter that the colour of the blazer matched his skin, there was no colour in the world that would bring life to his complexion.

The waistcoat is striped, grey, like his body is in jail. Arrested development.

He is a new-born again: his white shirt reflects that purity.

His trousers bear no crease. They are as pressed as his expression. I am not impressed by this depression.

He looks so sad.

I wish he would smile.

I wish his lips would stretch a mile.

I wish breath would escape his nose.

I wish the coffin wouldn’t close.

I wish he would open his eyes.

I wish my son was alive.


*Inspiration for this poem comes from the song Casket Pretty on the album TELEFONE by Noname.


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