For Peter, aged sixteen,
who by self and violent hands
took off his life.
Your desk is empty now,
your books unopened.
Macbeth will never murder
your sleep again,
nor Huck Finn drown himself
in the Mississippi of your mind.
The laughter ringing in your ears
is stilled now,
the heart’s truth left unsung.
Winter reigns at the frozen core
of Keats’ autumnal conspiracy,
and Frost’s dark woods close
to conceal you in their embrace.
I cannot judge you now:
my A’s and B’s are rendered
pointless by you,
if ever they had meaning
in the alphabet of your eyes.
Only, my grief taps out A, B, and C,
transmuting judgment into poetry