I watched all my words blink back tears–
All the little letters, little lives, swear off their sounds
The magic tragedy of May, that spring infanticide.
The moon children I so desperately cradled in secrets,
Hanging much too low, eclipsed by fairer movements.
And yet still I quivered on that lullaby
Shaking like November, healing like broken glass.
All this winter dancing under my boots—on the other side of a window,
Where you love her still:
Like a swollen doe, like bells in the distance, like an end to why.
And February has forgotten to exalt me:
The patron saint of hopeless romance.
I departed from my soul in a slow dance.
My masterpiece in barren soliloquy
Black sweaters in the summer.
Quick to tears and spilling years across a bathroom sink.
While clean babies sleep.
The cadence of her cry,
My heart aches in 6/8 time.
Written by: Alye Prentice