It was an illness –
there were so many then –
fever flush on his
narrow beating chest.
He had been her eldest,
pride of place,
the one who pushed up
inside her ribs
to grow closest to her heart.
She smoothed his hair
a last time and clipped
a curly orange lock.
She watched him die and
wept against her helplessness.
After a time
she no longer heard
the voices of her other children.
Her tears turned to glass,
delicate splinters
against her stone body.
One day a shipload of orphans
was parceled out
like day-old bread.
They gave the dead son’s name to a
somber, thin-armed boy.
He reached out,
transparent with hope.
She pushed the usurper
off her lap and
rocked,
rocked,
the north wind blowing
her mother self to dust.
