No one is innocent,
save for the child,
resplendent,
laughing at the sea.

Throw your bones in the garden
and redden as rain raises a finger,
calcium white,

it is sharp and cold
on this day of recollection,
you’re striding through the garden

plucking corpses.
Place the cradle on the table,
the flowers need no water.

Forever their bodies limp,
yet quivering in you a survival
that mocks your spoiled soul.

What’s done is done.
The plight of realization
has halted the burgeoning summer.

Years fuse to responsibility,
and you do not shine,
but collapse.