There is no chorus of weeping. I do not

beat my breast for something so unmade–

the shoe too small for the foot, the sound too faint

for the ear. Those front-heavy bodies I sought,

stretched full to burst as milkweed pods, know things,

feel things, that I have not. And yet. Small bud,

you took me for a moment, fluttering, a moth

in shadows. for an hour, I knelt before the fire, marveling

at your curious ache. Gripping myself in newness,

flowering in secret, moon-round and simple.

Assured of the cauldron of my body, my eyes watchful.

the night protecting us in tissue folds of darkness.

You were so quiet. The dripping tap,

the house’s quickening heart.

I dream-walked into bed, alive and somber–

cradling a microscopic flame.

At morning’s break, the sudden end.

I tried to hold on, to dam the flood. As if I could.

Strange bud, you hadn’t time enough to land.

Between worlds, not home in either one.