time and time again

To come upon a sliver of light in the quiet dark

revealing a beautiful pain.

Between two ears I hear my mother heart.

It beats like a river.

 

Rushing, as it was created to do.

 

How her surviving hollow organ

her eyes

her soft skin

was created.

 

There is nothing nostalgic

about the memory

of being told your child will cease to exist.

 

All likelihood, though never a guarantee

before you, and before you could ever be ready.

 

And then there is the significance of what it means

when the unexpected sustaining perseveres.

 

Bewilderment that one’s blood and unstruck genealogy

continues to deliver a child’s breath.

The grace of respiration.

 

There is nothing commonplace

in the singularity of mourning

this one being’s perfection.

 

I break.

Time and time

and still more time.

Again.

 

In the art of being broken to tiny pieces

I get to know the most precious treasure

that holds the entire universe.