It isn’t a matter of mourning your dead
unrelentingly for eighteen months
and then pressing the button that says
LIVE AGAIN
when the prescribed period is over

You have moments of lying face down
in the snow of your baby’s grave
willing fully willing
to become bones and the ash of bones

And you have other moments
ordering lamb chops and Australian wine
laughing and flashing cleavage

When the eighteen months are up
you find yourself moaning in your sleep
because when you wake up you can go back to sleep
because you don’t have to take your child to school
because your child is dead

All over again the dagger of despair
drops from its great height
cleaving your peace
You try to cry
out to the lover alive on the next pillow
but the dropping
has taken your breath away

By breakfast you are making jokes
stirring extra sugar into your coffee
to comfort yourself
and you are listening to NPR and getting mad

A neighbor asks how you are and you stammer
so she rushes to your rescue and says
“You stll have twinges”
Your mouth gapes like a fish drowning on air
“Twinges?” you gasp

Implying that every moment of every day
is fire

An hour later you are writing
about the feminine face of the Jewish God
You are whole and content
in a way that only this loss
could have rendered you

- unpublished