Seven stages of grief? I’m stuck at number one.
My heart is clogged by images of
An empty crib.
And a bare womb.
Diapers never changed.
A baptism never held.
A headstone never visited.
An inscription never traced.
His bedroom remains unchanged.
Denim with accents of yellow.
His name is written all over the wall of my heart.

New driver with a car,
a conductor with a baton.
Weaving a coupé in and out of traffic.
Using the wand to dictate tempo.

Soon the driver is confident.
Green means allegro.
Yellow means presto.
Red, slam on your brakes.

Cruising along with no worries at all.
The driver is calm and relaxed.
Music fortissimo….head bobbing.
Fifty in a thirty….who cares?

Until the devil comes out of nowhere,
a crescendo of screeching and crushing.
Red paint on black car.
Panic strikes and the gas is mistaken for the brake.

The rest in a blur.
Hitting high note after high note.
Broken fingers and ribs.
No more directing for this composer.

And the symphony is over.
The audience is in awe.
Amazing Grace can be heard,
Playing from the other car.

Born six hours ago, already deceased.
Gone like that, taken to heaven.
“Domenick,” belonging to god, how appropriate.
I was knocked unconscious, blood loss.  
First thing I heard when aware:
“Complications, lack of oxygen, premature delivery.”

  

  

Tiny baby, just over two pounds.
Miniature fingers, perfect in my mind.
Small casket, custom ordered, name engraved.
Little recollection of the surrounding supporters.
Big funeral, twenty-three car procession.
Huge gaping hole, never the same.

  

  

My memories lie in stories retold.
Desperate to hear his first breath.
Oddly wishing I heard his last.
Motionless baby lies in my arms.
Only picture, Mommy and lifeless son.
Six years later, still salted wound.