My+Son,+My+Executioner

Donald Hall 1955
 * My Son, My Executioner**

My son, my executioner, I take you in my arms quiet and small and just astir and whom my body warms.

Sweet death, small son, our instrument of immortality, your cries and hunger document our bodily decay.

We twenty-five and twenty-two who seemed to live forever observe enduring life in you and start to die together.