Grief

When you died
my breast milk turned blue,

and I spent the better part of nine months

in denial.

On the first night
I shook my head until it paralyzed
into a confused cocked position.

Then I threw what was left of my faith 

up to the ceiling to see what would stick.

I’ve been cleaning it off the walls

and wondering, beyond reason, if you'll call
since.

And now that I have children of my own

I realize the truth is
that I loved you like my child.

I suppose I had no right.

Cleansing my kitchen with lemons,

I try to start a new day.
I will myself to tell grief

it is no longer welcome here.

The citrus stings my cuts.

This morning, too simply, I imagine waking you

in the room upstairs with a silly song 

and sunlight steaming in through the window.

It’s a season and a day I don’t want you to miss.

I imagine you smile, 

if only for my sake.

Then I make you a breakfast to start your day
and pour you a juice

as though you might sit right there at my table,
sweet baby,

and tell me just what was wrong.