a child’s cry is a world.

there is no gift to see

past its edges.

its anguish a nest of wasps for a head.   

each telling barb a death

because we cannot not face this suffering

and cannot face it down. 

and, against this, what?  

what is to be given to hold this?

I am nothing

when you are not here: nothing

when you are

your coming and going the same

to me

agony,

a child’s cry

inconsolable