I hate posting my own, but here I am - posting my own.
The Death of the Infant Sun
Perhaps we women laughed too loud, too long,
or not enough. Perhaps our sins were far
too large for God to overlook. How wrong
the darkness has become - how midnight-marred
each day begins and ends. There is no joy
in walking half the night - or counting stars
or dreaming back or looking straight ahead.
There is no daytime ruse we can employ -
no sleight of hand has ever brought the dead
sky back to light, concealed our scars, or paused
the anguish long enough for us to cry.
We women know that we alone have caused
the dark to fall - the light cast out our wombs to die.
________
Before the Coroner Comes
more notes from the back of an ambulance
This boy is dead and I won't think
of my own sons. Instead, I'll blink
and ponder on the mundane things, like why
death comes at change of shift and look how far
fresh blood can roam.
I hate the sight of bone-white chalk
the scent of death, the hum of talk.
This boy is dead - don't ask me what I know.
I'll not tell why but where some children die.
They die at home.
"How can this be?" his mother said.
"I left him sleeping, safe in bed."
I hold her back - her son is dead.
My boys are home. This is how love leaves us -
each alone.
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