Apology for My Son Who Stops to Ask About His Mother Once More
by Blas Falconer
The branch, bent to the ground as if under the weight of its
own white blossom, is
like a sadness I see
growing inside you. What can
I do but tell, again, how
under the fluorescent light, she bent
over your swaddled body, her face
pale against her dark brown hair,
yours dark against the pale sheet.
That is your story. This
is your share
of the world’s grief, what you must carry, and
which I cannot bear
for you.
Published on February 23, 2018