Neither first nor last,
The heaving comes
Wave upon ugly wave of angry gasping hiccups and fat teardrops
An attempt to quench
Or fill?
The seeping void
Hands clasp and unclasp over cheek and chin,
Grabbing and clenching at Nothing.
Sometimes I see you, not here, but in the depths of my sleep.
Never enough to hold,
Never to wake with hands and heart full.
”Wait, Mama.”
Each day brings less
less hope
les hop
le ho
l h
lh
l
A shift, a rebalance of joy crammed untidily into the Other Bucket,
Which wrought-out lid no longer closes
(It never really did, she thought)
To be supplanted by more gray,
Like some long-forgotten dumplings
Cooked down to gummy clouds in a grimy pot
But they do slowly trickle into the spaces between
Almost enough for my belly to feel full,
Or at least
Remember
The
Sensation