Bluebells

Blue light ringing through the green grass. The bent heads of petals are not praying to anything or to anyone. Only we are standing in a field of them, my son and me and me holding him. In my arms he stretches out to the very far ends of the earth like a radio signal made of skin and organs, of everything. I was singing a song to him I made up about me dying. Since yesterday he has not been crying as much as screaming like it is terrifying to wake up. It is terrifying to wake up and terrifying to sleep and his feet going blue in the cold spring air in which he is growing. His mother is growing him with the milk she makes all day, spilling out in blue. The song I am singing to him puts him to sleep, will put me to sleep. Will one day burst the drum in my ear like a bell, very much like a voice screaming from far off, though you don’t know if it’s hurting or hungry or nothing at all.