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