Losing My Only Child
By Erich von Hungen
Crib death
more common than I would have thought.
But still, not enough to clear the hum in my brain,
my fault, my guilt, who else?
And now, each stroller that passes,
I look at more than ever before,
each car seat being placed, the baby
with loose skin, no hair, scrunched eyes.
I look and care. I delight.
I almost feel like my life,
my own, had not stopped.
Children as they pass, holding mothers' hands.
In the park, the flowers browning, peeling
but still sun catching the ground where
they roll a ball or pull a toy.
Not mine, any of it now.
The tiny legs running through it,
the world of gravity and grass,
chubby hands that keep touching.
Not mine — not anymore,
and yet, my love
can no longer differentiate.
It no longer even wants to.
Going Through Hell
By Erich von Hungen
My house burned down
and everything in it.
I escaped with my pants,
a pair of flip-flops and a jacket.
Looking back now through the night
I smell the burning of foam rubber, plastic,
and so many synthetics mixed with the wood, the trees.
The flames make it all look small.
They shoot thirty feet higher.
But still, I never thought I owned enough
to feed that height of indignation — that size of fire.
So, what of this is Hell:
the fire or that I had so much,
which is the greater pain: the carrying it,
or the way that burden was lightened?
Next time, if it comes again,
I won't give Hell a second chance.
Next time, I'll have just what I can hold.
I've learned the lesson,
hell is made of too much
and of too much reaching.
I see it now. I understand,
for heaven's door
you need an open hand.
Erich von Hungen
Erich von Hungen is a writer from San Francisco, California. His writing has appeared in Icefloe Press, The Write Launch, Dust Poetry Magazine, Green Ink Press, The Hyacinth Review, Fahmidan Journal and others. He is the author of four poetry books. The most recent is “Bleeding Through: 72 Poems Of Man in Nature”.
Photo credit: Jon Flobrant
Apricot Press 