Day 381

Your hand reaches in the dark
for your child, but he is not there.
What’s left of him is your habit
of reaching for him in your half-sleep:
his small chest moving up and down
as breath expanded it, left it. Then
left it forever.  What filled 
his small body was hunger.  
His cries grew weaker,
then disappeared. In the end
he could barely open his mouth
for you to try to feed him a stem of a plant.
At the end he looked at you as if (you thought)
to apologize for having come, then gone.
He grew lighter and lighter in your arms.
For weeks you carried his defeat, his longing.
Now the weight of his goneness is heavier
than any weight you have known. It
is what lies beside you, what won’t
let you rest.