Dear Megan

Its quite a life
when phone calls become
calls for more faith
when watching
is silent like a mother
on Good Friday

I wanted to tell you
that I’m done with planning
I don’t know where I’ll be
next spring, and its because
you have become
acceptably unpredictable

in the eight months
that you have claimed life
I have been a beggar
burning alter candles
and solely a believer
in these eight months

beneath your pink dress
are the toes that curl
and above, your head
bopping and turning
at sounds I make
so attentive to love

the raising of your eyes
I see it even now
as you lie away
in your hospital crib
and the passing moments
render it second to home