As The Back Is Broken By What Is Lifted From It


My strange dead son
wakes me up again,
the white moon
washing his white skin.

Tears can be beautiful. A gift.
I believed that, I was that soft
with luck. Now, left,
I imagine how he laughed.

He stands in the empty lease
of moonlight, his face
as motionless as loss,
the pause before everything turns loose.

Before everything. That stop.
That infinite skip.
That death of hope.
My son who never lived wakes up,

leaves his desolate winds,
comes into my room, and stands
crying. Outside my hands.
The heart looks and looks and breaks with what it finds.

Unmended daughter