Two Sets of Blueberry Eyes

wide 

with wonder at the world. 

I wonder, 

when did my wisp of whimsy wane? 

When the nightingale whistles 

I whisper, 

“Wait with me, 

without worldly wounds. 

Wait 

while I watch. 

Wait 

while I keep you safe. 

Wait 

until you can weather the worst with wonder, too. Wait.”

Silly Horsey

Silly how the world turns.

Silly how the blame and fault burn 

with questions with no answers.

Silly how the dead are silent.

Silly how I write on a coloring page 

while my son beside me plays

“silly horsey.”

Silly “how could they?” 

Silly “why don’t I?”

Silly mind.

Silly heart.

Silly life.

Silly how old habits come back.

Silly how old wells stay dry.

Silly how long it takes me to pray, 

repent and return to my son’s game.

Silly horsey.

READY

THE DRIP OF TAP WATER

FROM THE TIP OF A COMB

DOWN THE NAPE OF MY NECK.

THE SQUIRMING STRUGGLE

AGAINST GENTLE

HANDS DETERMINED TO MAKE ME PRESENTABLE.

AND I WISH–

NO. I MISS THE CARE OF MY MOTHER 

GETTING  ME UP AND 

MAKING ME READY.

AND MAYBE IF ANOTHER 

PERSON COULD BE BOTHERED

TO BRAID MY HAIR WITH TAP WATER 

I COULD GET MYSELF UP AND BE READY.

Still,

I bring my son to play dates 

where he plays 

with kids his age…

and their siblings. 

And their mothers 

look at me and wonder 

if he 

will ever be 

a brother. 

None of them want to know I tried 

multiple times, 

but they look at me.

My womb is empty; 

still 

I fill 

my bucket with blueberries. 

I fill 

my kettle with water. 

I fill 

my cup with tea.

The crib is empty 

already 

(still) 

but the toddler bed is filled 

like our days 

of nature walks 

and sidewalk chalk. 

Still, 

there are names that make me wonder 

what my boy would be like as a brother: 

Mack. Margo. Ransom. Stevie. 

Names I had chosen when I thought maybe 

another life could live inside me.

My womb is empty 

still. 

I fill 

my nights with bitter prayer. 

I fill 

my son’s days with love. 

I fill 

my cup with tea.

the vigil

No one prayed while I paced the path between the sink and the bath tub.

No one sang “It Is Well” when I birthed you into a watery grave.

No one held my hand as I flushed you away, 

twenty-seven weeks away from a timely birth.

No one brought a light luncheon to the 3 am vigil in a bathroom.

Your father and brother slept on, 

not knowing you had come and gone.

No one sent flowers.

No one offered condolences.

Because funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living and the living never met you.

the songs my grandmother sang

My grandmother used to sing Billy Joel songs to me, 

usually the love songs 

and she would sing 

about a room in a heart like a sanctuary 

not to worship love but to protect it jealously.

My grandmother used to sing Nat King Cole songs to me 

and the look she gave me from the L to the E 

was so pure 

I knew that I was lucky to know love like hers. 

My grandmother used to sing Harry Connick Jr. songs to me, 

and we would drive from New York to Vermont for a weekend 

and I felt so grown up because I was her friend. 

My grandmother used to sing Norah Jones songs to me, 

and I swear to God I could hear her heart break 

over every octave change. 

My grandmother used to sing Michael Bublé songs with me 

and we promised love to each other 

over and over and over 

and that felt like everything. 

One day, she didn’t sing anymore. 

In fact, the radio was off in her car 

and she says it’s because her voice is too old to sing along. 

And I didn’t believe her 

because she is my grandmother 

and my grandmother sings, 

especially jazz. 

At last, 

I sit beside her in church 

waiting for her voice to rise above the rest in clear soprano 

and only then do I know 

what she’s known 

for the past five years: 

Vocal cords age 

and minds wrinkle like skin 

turning to dust before we’re even in 

our graves.

So I sang Billy Joel to myself in my car,

but it’s really to my grandmother.

And soon enough 

she returns to dust, 

singing in glory 

and I keep her in that room in my heart like a sanctuary.

the shadow I carry

sunburned strawberries. 

midnight toast with jam.

kisses in the kitchen, 

in the bathroom, 

on the stairs. 

highlights in my hair. 

curly blonde halo

snacking on cheerios.

slow songs on stereo.

it’s dark outside 

but there are bright spots 

if we look for them.

I’m looking.

I’m trying.

I swear that I am.