Apology for My Son Who Stops to Ask About His Mother Once More

February 23, 2018
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.