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