Meet me at the skeleton tree, Nick
I want to tell you about my girl,
Knew her just well enough to miss.
This feeling inside me, imagine
A vase shattered on the hearth.
Did I know her well enough to miss?
Memory has sought refuge above at night
Up late with the ghosts of regret, they rattle
Chains linking moments that cannot steal back.
Can I miss her?
Her tiny body, bathed in blood,
Drowned in dissolved organs.
Her eyes still stare me into hiding.
Through glassed eyes and skeleton tears
One not known for words, just his essence
Wraps me in strong arms, “I know.”
We know now.
He held his baby boy.
Rocking him after the bough broke.
Image: Berthe Morisot, The Cradle, 1872