The Son's Vow
–after Sylvia Plath
by Marcel Aime Duclos

I am with you in this.
I too will never talk to him again.

The best of summer is gone.
August rain soaks me
fuels the invisible decay
of my late harvest
drenched in the lower field
destined to rot on the manure pile.
He leaves me in this in-between.
I am not alone in this.

He leaves me in these last hot days.
The oak and maple's leaves
still in the trees
hang there together
in between
except for the one
too early fallen
destined as a gift
my last word.
I will never talk to him again.


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