How often can I send my son to speak
to the emptiness inside the house
buried in woods before he comes back
with the wrong mouth, pulling honey
bees and dry oak out in knots, before
he begins to speak as the abandoned
house, speak as slow wind, speak
as half-collapsed roof kicked in
by a deliberate sky pouring itself
into him full and full still until stars
lit hard with what I only now know
to be dead light glow inside his chest,
speak as a body drowned with sunrise.