Epic Tragedy ‘My Son’ + Author explanation + Review

My Son
Part 1: The Promise
“The bloody note,
That his lost wife wrote
He found under his pillow
When in the afternoon he awoke.
His heart grew weak as he read her final thoughts
Her last words about the son she lost
And the promise that she broke.


But it sends him right
Back to that lovely night
When they felt each other’s love
And gave each other light
But he tears up when he remembers the deed
The love he felt then, seems now like greed
Her promise he would recite.

‘Our life together, darling, has just begun
And I would be honored if you had our son.’
He was her man and she was his lady
And so he asked her to have his baby.
Neither hesitated.

She laid on the floor
As the blood poured
She felt the one inside
Would live no more
And she was crying for help and she called everyone.
Thinking that someone could save her son.”
The promise laid on the ground torn

The shame she had
When he took her hand
In the hospital room
But he made no demand
And when he first entered she wouldn’t even lock
Her eyes with his, she just turned toward the wall
Thinking the promise, she would damn.

But she looked in time
With her tearing eyes
She wanted to see him
The one she was denied
And when she did her world was shattered and put in submission
It was black and bloody and in the fetal position.
Her promise was a lie.

‘Our life, my darling, had just begun.
I only need my girl and I don’t need a son.’
He said this, but he could not hide his pain
He knew that their love would never be the same
Neither reiterated.

And alas one evening
While he was dreaming
She’d lay in the tub
Her wrists slashed and bleeding
And when he saw the result his heart receded
It tore apart when her wrists stopped bleeding.
The promise she was relieving.

And after the police went
And after the trial
After the search of his house
And long after denial
That’s when he found her letter of regret.
Buried under his pillow so he couldn’t neglect.
But then arose a devious smile.

‘Our life, my darling, has just begun.
All I have to do is save some of your blood.’
He knew a man who could restore her life
Half of this woman would still be half of his wife.
Shockingly, he never hesitated.”


My Son
Part 2: The Note Beneath His Pillow

“My darling husband, I can’t look at your face
I made a promise but it went to waste
The lovely day when we became one
And the lovely night when we planned our son
But now I’ve never felt so low before
I don’t want to look in your eyes anymore
I saw your pain when you heard the news
We asked God for another but he must have refused
And all I wanted was to carry your name.
Now I hide my head in shame
And your face that day in my mind remains
I’m not even a woman anymore.


The one that I knew could carry my soul
The one who could shield me from the cold
You lent me all that you had inside
I tried to give him to you, you know that I tried
I saw you crying as I came to
Losing myself was all I could do
I never looked right at you again
I regret it now, since you needed a friend
And all I wanted was to carry your name.
Now I hide my head in shame
And your face that day in my mind remains
I’m not even a woman anymore.

And I was wallowing and rolling in the pool of blood
The rivers that originated from me would flood
All I tasted and felt was the death
Of my baby boy who would never have breath
I cried for you, baby; I cried for you in fright
Years went by in that one horrid night
Would we ever be the same? Would we ever smile?
Would I ever get over it? Am I too fragile?
And all I wanted was to carry your name.
Now I hide my head in shame
And your face that day in my mind remains
I’m not even a woman anymore.

Things are a little more clearer now
There is a sense of peace in the solution I found
Strange I choose to bathe in blood
Again, it might as well be mud
And soon I’ll rest in the dirt with the worms
And never again feel this heart that burns
I may be letting you down again
But it’s only one more time, you were my very best friend
And all I wanted was to carry your name.
Now I hide my head in shame
And your face that day in my mind remains
I’m not even a woman anymore.”

My Son
Part 3: Half of Her Life

“The being, he’s been waiting for has just opened her eyes
There was a feeling of dread, but not a look of surprise
He knew her at first site but she did not know his face
He had his work cut out for him, her memory to replace

A man who was a monster had perfected an art
To bring back the dead and do it with just one body part
Her husband had brought in a container of red
And there was no touch of guilt or second thought in his head

He would have her love
The one who went away
The one who made a promise
Half of her, the body, but the mind decayed

And as the weeks past, he fed her the past
But the scars on her wrists were given no fact
He said that she must got them from broken windows or barbed wire
The blood covered furniture and clothes went into the fire

She ate it all up and her husband was content
He didn’t have it all, but it was worth what he spent
But every so often his memory took him to
The horrible consequences of the life he would choose

But he would still have her love
And he would get her back slowly
She would forget her promise
Half of her, man-made, and surely unholy

But she always grew restless when he wasn’t around
That when she closed her eyes and tried hard no explanation was found
Then wandered into a room where the standing mirror was stashed
And too her surprise, it wasn’t her in the glass

But it looked as if it was a younger look-a-like
And the image moved it lips, spoke and had a voice like a spike
She would show off her arms and reveal no scars
And she’d tell her of the real reason that her memories depart

“He just wanted your love
Did he mention your son?
I can see not by the look in your eyes”
Half of her, other in the mirror, she couldn’t shun

She confronted her husband with the story she heard
And he just stood still and spoke not a word
And without even thinking twice gathered all the mirrors
And locked them in the basement to hide from his fears

And in fury he jumped on her, strangled her, bashed her head.
But you know you can’t kill what is already dead
The tears in his eyes, he couldn’t bare that she knew the truth
He passed out from exhaustion and she took him to his room

He just wanted her love
And now it was falling apart
But she wandered to the basement of mirrors
Half and half brought together from the dark

He awoke and the memories came back
So slow he had to catch his breath
But he heard laughing in the dining room
He rushed into to see pictures of a bride and groom

His lovely wife regained her mind
And forgave her love for she knew he meant right
And they sat together and laughed without shivers
Looking for hours at wedding pictures

He just wanted her love
And he had found it at last
The deeds may have been in sin
More or less, who’s to guess

With or without a son
They sealed their love with a kiss
Because the promise was built on their love
Two halves, sown together, at the wrists”


© Delia Ross. 2010

(Special thanks to Dustin Hiatt. RIP)

((Don’t understand the epic tragedy/story? Please read the follow few paragraphs for an explanation by the author below))
It is a love story between a man and a woman. They fall in love, they get married, and on their wedding night he ask her if she will have his baby, ‘a son’? Of course, as a wife should, she happily obliged. But several months later into the pregnancy, while she was alone in her house, she began to bleed profusely, and while she was in her bathroom she made several phone calls, calling the doctors, her husband, etc… but nothing stopped her from having a miscarriage. By the time the ambulance made it to her home, it was already too late, and blood was everywhere in the bathroom. Later on, her husband meets her at the hospital, when he entered the room to hold her hand, she was ashamed to inform her husband that she had lost the baby, that her promise ‘was a lie’ as it were. She wanted to see her son, and he didn’t want her to remember their son that way, but she did anyway, she held her son, who was ‘black and blue’.


For the next year or so, they tried to have a baby, but as she knew, the miscarriage pretty much ruined her, and she was unable to bear children, hence the ‘I’m not even a woman anymore’. Their marriage was never again the same, and she was so lost in despair that she took her own life, but before doing so, wrote a suicide letter to her husband and placed it under his pillow, where she knew the cops would not take it as evidence. So after her body was removed, and the police were through taking statements, he went to rest his head. That is where he found her note. He knew a doctor that could bring people back from the dead, much like Frankenstein or a clone, and all he needed was some of her blood, which he had from the bathtub where she cut her wrist and bleed to death. So note 1 describes their love, their pregnancy, and the lost of the child. Note 2 is her suicide note under his pillow. Now on to ‘note 3’.

The doctor warned him of the dangers involved, and encouraged him to not have any mirrors in the house. The mirrors have bad side effects with the person whom has been brought back to life. When she awoke, her memory was temporarily gone, but he took her home and wanted to restart the life they had. When she inquired about her scars on her wrist, he lied to her on how she got them. When he wasn’t around she would rest, sleep, meditate, but no plausible reason or explanation in her mind ever came to her. She longed to have her memory. And while she couldn’t remember things, her husband clearly could, and his conscious was not at is. One day she wandered into the basement where she found a whole bunch of mirrors stashed and covered up with sheets. When she removed the sheets and looked in the mirror, the ghost or soul of herself would appear in these mirrors. And this image in the mirror would remind her of the things that had happened, about how those scars really occurred, and that she had lost a son, and she had took her own life.

When she confronted her husband about the real truth, and demanded to know what was really going on, he was ashamed to admit that he had cloned her, so he began to strangle her. But he couldn’t kill her, not again, because inside he felt guilty and responsible for everything that had happened. Had he not asked for a child, things would be different? So he passed out and went to sleep. While he was sleeping, she went back to the basement of mirrors, and her ghost went into the body of her, and she became herself again. She regained her memories. She was content, she went into the living room, and began watching the videos taken from their wedding day. When he awoke he found her there, and she forgave him for bringing her back from the dead, and they kissed and lived happily ever after, without a son. But of course, they had to live in seclusion because of the things he did via bringing her back… So all of this story occurs in the final Note- 3, Half of Her Life.

The following contains a beautiful review/ interpretation of my epic tragedy, from a great French Parisien music composer, Frederick Kojevnikov, who was not only a fan of my words but a friend. He died of cancer a few years ago. RIP

“Delia, this is an extremely complex piece, I had to read it carefully to get it throughout. You blend dream (or nightmare) and reality, thoughts and wishes, fake death into fake life and actual pain into fancied recoveries. First thing that comes in mind is that you might have set some autobiographical elements into the text, the fact that with so simple a choice of words you can tell so much points toward this hypothesis, plus your medecine background whistles its part now and then to give the nightmare a layer of truth that perfectly acts in the ensemble.

I more wonder about the relationship between the man and the woman, they seem to love each other across physical death, parting from sanity to madness to gather back again as if it had been just a game, though I’m not so certain their love hasn’t won the battle against madness, and the ambiguity (was love stronger ?) must be deliberate, perhaps to draw a happy ending from all this blood, perhaps because you, as the writer, couldn’t stand the images your mind aroused, who knows ?

The vocabulary displays some ambivalences too : sometimes it’s simple and ordinary, sometimes it becomes richer, that’s all right, that’s the type of freedom a writer tries out from his/her craft, the juice of the profession, if you like. Then I haven’t counted the rythm of the lines, rather irregular but always matching a musical deed ; this is probably unconscious in you though quite natural.

As for the story itself, at the start I believed it was going to be a love affair as the girls love to dream them, and was very surprised to notice it’s violent and raw as well as linked on fantasy, it could be a novel, or a script, but no, it’s a poem, the choice of the genre ascribes even more power to the text, it gives it a punch of nobility. I deeply enjoyed the balance between what I could easily picture and what I had to strive to make out ; your intellectuality works as a battery of paradoxal polarities : sometimes I feel you almost wished all this happened to you, or at least like this – to go further down the feeling of pain… because this woman is so incarnated by the poem, when the man stands more back (which is normal, because he doesn’t drive the action : when he tries to drive the action the results go awry – the Note Beneath the Pillow is the real actor, I guess, am I wrong ? the text inside the text (and under the place where you put your head on…).

OK, I could go on analyzing like this for hours, but I got to work too, Delia – and before that I fire a big kiss across the ocean to you !

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