(hands in glass are like
a heart trying
to let go. bare skin and
sharp angles- even when
you put down the shards, pry
your fingers open your
hands will glitter and
sting like unshed tears with all
you grasped honestly, nakedly, all
that you can't leave behind)

my mother built this
child's gravestone with
(her child's gravestone with)
her own two hands. she lifts
the glass and places it in
the mold, bending, and shifts
her arms and twists
her hands to let go. This
is her penance, this
work is not swift she
plunges her hands in, looks
for pieces to fit while
the glass tumbles with
a tinkling 'chisk'
but her hands
are protected
by gloves.

How much
did I have to be yours
for that?

The only thing worse
Than hearing a child gasp
If only to breathe-

Parents' hushed whispers
Tucked away in dim corners
'Whose turn is it now.'

And then I was there-
but still, perpetually,
I am so helpless

They say He
is in the stillness. The calm
after the storm, the quiet
before the noise, any tiny
moments of rest scattered
throughout the day. Maybe He
is even here, right now
residing in the cool cessation,
calm silence, living where
no words will thrive, the deafening noiselessness
pressing down on me- maybe
I should be comforted that
in the absence of you, He
has come to fill the spaces
our words have left behind. Darling,
I must apologize yet again
for my consistent inability to perceive
the divine. Please, understand
when I try and tell you, here,
I see only emptiness.