Written in 2007
"A voice is heard in Ramah,
weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted,
because they are no more."
Matthew 2.18
A shadow play of falling and falling blades
continued on each side of the house; we watched
for a while. The TV talked to itself while we talked
about the rise in income tax, the guy who tried
to kiss you at work, and what to say
to your mother when she calls. She will call.
She always calls. We went back inside. The TV talked
to itself about Jennifer Aniston’s heartbreak, while we
talked about cashew nuts, Beethoven bagatelles
and the guy who kissed you at work. Outside
wails went up and down like virtuoso violin scales
and blood sprayed like water over dry garden.
Now we’re on the landing and all the doors are ajar.
You enter first, you were always braver, and I hold
onto your hand. Our son is content. He is sleeping
and he will stay content. You lift him
and place him in a little bulrush boat
and we kneel on the floor to kiss him.
You place a note on his chest. The note,
like us, moves up and down with his breathing.
We go downstairs, open the door, and leave him
on the doorstep, and we go back inside
to talk. A soldier came by, his knife panting
like a lion that had finished more cattle
than he dared imagine and was now soaking
in the sun before further testing his stomach.
The sight of a baby presented like a gift
startled him from frenzy and when
he read the note, he was so overcome
that his blade got up and devoured him.
Another soldier came upon our door:
our baby is no more, no more.
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