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
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