Now you'd be three,
I said to myself,
seeing a child born
the same summer as you.
Now you'd be six,
or seven, or ten.
I watched you grow
in foreign bodies.
Leaping into a pool, all laughter,
or frowning over a keyboard,
but mostly just standing,
taller each time.
How splendid your most
mundane action seemed
in these joyful proxies.
I often held back tears.
Now you are twenty-one.
Finally, it makes sense
that you have moved away
into your own afterlife.
I love this poem.
ReplyDeleteYes, it is perfect.
ReplyDeleteI wanted to share this poem with a friend who had a late-term still birth...but then I didn't know if it would be the right or wrong thing to do. So I just read it in honor of her lost child.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing this. Great ending.
ReplyDeleteAya the heartbreak. Frowning over a keyboard. Never let me forget the joy and privilege of that struggle!
ReplyDeleteYes, this is lovely. My sweet one is twenty-seven this year. I often see her dancing in eternity.
ReplyDeleteDear readers, your comments are as beautiful as the poem.
ReplyDelete