small hands gather miniature suns
into broken bouquets on mangled stems

no
we were given twenty four minutes
twenty four minutes to hold
all the memories of his lifetime
everything he'll never do
dreams of should've
.................could've
................would've been
ever the story of my life
the literal epitaph of his

no yellow heads floating
in scratched tupperware cups

just a bloodied nightgown
to fold around one picture
of a family that will never be
a handful of rose petals
from the grandpa he'll never see
and a loathsome little angelbear
gifted by the hospital
...................his only toy
thus we wrapped his body
(ashes to ashes)

silver gray spheres sway in unmown grass
awaiting a breath never to blow

left with endless "i'm sorry"s
to cram back down well meaning throats
but we won't rip their vocal cords out today
sorry made the list of useless words
it's okay to say and we've been civilized
duty demands we listen and nod
until they go away
why do we care about
some day?some day
doesn't matter
our son is gone now

unheld/unhugged
no smile to remember
not enough time to smile
underdeveloped lungs can't cry

but we still cry
................because
he will never pick
broken bouquets of dandelions

05/20/2007

Author's Note: no commentary on god or his will necessary. hope for the future does not heal the hurt of the now.

Posted on 05/20/2007
Copyright © 2024 Rhyana Fisher