Featured Poet - Terry Cox-Joseph

SUPPORT GROUP

Sisters in our fractured journey, we spoke

of annihilated dreams. Her only friend

that day, I drove unfamiliar terrain like

a jittery cat.

Room too wide, ceiling too low,

colleagues seated in chairs lined

against the wall as though

a dance

might break out. I considered 

her son’s smooth, taut skin, restful 

countenance, smooth chin angled oddly

on satin pillow, 

bowtie jutting jaw. Oh. The gunshot. 

Empathy applied like salve to 

a wound can never fill a chasm. 

Injustice 

screamed louder than a 10-96 code 

that officers laughed off. 

A year of moonless nights. She signed 

into hospital, 

immersed herself in the wail 

of police sirens while therapists 

chanted new mantra. 

We celebrated her return. 

But her words resonated 

like hammer on anvil. 

We kneaded her spirit, 

lauded participation, yet 

caved to

inertia. The rest of our sons’ 

lives continue 

in dysfunctional 

parallels. I speak of my son’s rages, 

skipped classes, suspicion of drugs. 

She offers sizzling coals. 

I turn my back, cradle my son 

in stained reality, 

know that hers could do no wrong, 

will never do wrong, safe 

on satin pillow.

ABOUT THE POEM: Exhausted from therapy, doctors’ appointments, fights with my spouse over parenting styles, and our son’s behaviour, but still needing to talk to people who understood, I joined an online support group for parents of children with psychological issues. One of them lived only a couple of hours from me. One day, her son took her car, flipped it in a ditch, and ran home. The neighbours downstairs called the police. The police called for backup and instead of talking him down, they drew their guns and snuck into the house. His mother - my support group friend - stood outside on the grass to wait for them to bring him out. Instead, she saw him through the kitchen window while he was shot and killed. She flew to another state for residential therapy but we in the support group all suspected that she was suicidal. On line, she spoke of planning out her will, settling her estate, and providing gifts for people who had helped her. I got the call first thing in the morning six months after her son died. She locked herself in the bathroom and shot herself. (That is another poem, not yet written.) My son was eventually diagnosed as barely on the spectrum of Asperger’s Syndrome. “Just a smidge,” he calls it. Or, “Aspie Lite.” He has the additional diagnosis of bi-polar. He is married with kids, working hard, staying on his meds, and still way too impulsive. But he gives really good hugs.

CURLED CONFETTI AND DENDRITES

If I could give you anything 

it would not be boxed and bedecked

with curled confetti, nestled beneath 

layered fluff and crackle of tissue. 

It would be intangible as the breeze, 

hot as a hammering heart, 

ever-present as our Milky Way.

I would gift you with a yearning for 

knowledge that shakes you by the shoulder

at midnight, stirs you at sunrise, fuels you 

by noonday dragonflies. I would envelop you 

with a need for literature and reason 

that spirals from Aristotle to Mr. Spock, 

and empathy as soothing as a newborn’s breath.

So many gifts over the years. 

Shredded pages on paint-stained carpet, 

crushed neoprene helicopters, 

shattered remotes, tattered sailboats.

Doctors, police - yes, those visits 

gifts, too—tangled in the yarn of learning. 

I grieve submerged potential - uncovered 

igneous, unknown mummies, unspoken poems.

I can only wish and teach and wake 

each day until, as you grow,

I have nothing left 

to give

but love 

in a breath of condensation

that drifts on, anticipating.

ABOUT THE POEM: Anyone who has been a caregiver for someone with health needs knows how exhausting it is. Too many days drag by with unaccomplished tasks, spent in tears. This poem talks about my love for my son, shown in one of my love languages—gift giving—and how I wish mental health, and the drive to learn and create could be packaged and handed out like a gift.

AFTERIMAGE

You sank to the bottom of a glass,

Lenox or Orrefors,

greeted each day with a hangover

that amassed like storm clouds

in the night.

I forgive you the chaos in the kitchen

forgotten groceries

misplaced car keys

intrusive headaches

because kids can drive you crazy

but love doesn’t float on ice

and never saying you’re sorry 

lasts a lifetime.

ABOUT THE POEM: My mother was an alcoholic. While she had plenty of emotional issues that led up to it, the pain and neglect remains for the five of us children who group up in such a household. Without our dad, books, teachers, and friends, we would have been in worse shape. Reading and writing poetry is like therapy with flower petals on top.