a fragile mountain of tiny clothes,
piled griefly on the floor,
unused and
of no more use to this oncebrief family anymore.
we should set fire to it. no,
we should expire within it. no,
we should pick up knives and in our denial of it know
finality of pain.
yet something stays the hand—
something and:
that no matter how intense the hurt,
you were, however faintly, too upon this Earth.
with us of us in us
you must remain.
God, let us pray never to forget that day.
remembering it most when
we move through this hideous volume of silence,
in a house;
of broken geometry,
moving forward everything recedes,
waiting for something to happen. anything but the pale
sameness.
yet something stays the hand—
your face then
your eyes opening again
breathe in
this hope,
worth all the ******* pain in the world,
my dear little girl
in Heaven.
