My oldest son, William Rockaway Boger, died on July 23rd, 2023. He was celebrating his 30th birthday. Our relationship was strained. We often went weeks, and sometimes months, without talking, because I would not speak to him when he was drinking or using. When we did speak, the facts of recovery hung over our heads like a sword, or a very heavy rock: we both knew what kinds of structure, programming, and fellowship encouraged his sobriety, and we both knew what kinds did not. My last words to him were something like “Please don’t drink anymore today, and go straight to the hospital. I love you, and I’m afraid. You need to detox.”
For at least a week before his death, I agonized over our relationship, over whether or not I was helping William or hurting William. Addiction has a way of turning “truth” inside-out, upside down, and leaving common sense standing on its head. Many, many times we followed “the best advice,” only to see his use escalate, his behavior deteriorate, and our family situation become dangerously unstable. We never, ever, really knew what the “right” thing to do was, or how to do it, despite countless hours of counseling, 12 Step programming, and group therapy. I still feel that my best intentions killed him, while also offering, promising, his only chance to live.
Over the last week of his life, and our life together, I worked on a poem. Over his 30th Birthday weekend, the piece came into very sharp focus, and on Monday, July 24th, I was finishing it when the doorbell rang. Two policemen stood on our porch, waiting to deliver a message. Later in the day, I printed this draft.
The Exorcist Fled
My son across the stony altar lies
Where demons eat away his organs.
The exorcist fled. The high priest just cries.
Bound, his sores seeping, he screams for poison.
Our mercy is blind and deaf and dumb while
My son across the stony altar lies.
Bowed beside, my dagger shines but falters
Near his heart, his neck. God is silent.
The exorcist fled. The high priest just cries.
Every day this mountain walk together
While grapes and poppy leech away until
My son across the stony altar lies.
My robe is rent. Tears stripe my ash blind face.
Yahweh knows I need an answer now, since
The exorcist fled, the high priest just cries.
Today our donkey died. Our gourds are empty.
Nothing whispers secret healing prayers.
My son across the stony altar lies.
The exorcist fled. The high priest just cries.
– wpb –
