a small, perfect child
was run through nights
and walked through walls
but the side of his half open
brain was too much
like holding hell in your hands
unable to look away.

beneath the dying flowers
too long a funeral
makes for too long a night
not to make a child in grief.

open eyed mother falls in her ******
a meaningless hill she must climb for
the man,
and all she can think of is
the child.
this is how she made the child.