MB Hair

WHAT’S LEFT

Your phone call brought a heartache
we each endured alone.
My calls all went unanswered while
I thought you still were home.
When you told me that the doctors
had turned you inside out
and left the early table baby
to perish there without
life or love, enfolded in
the arms of mom or dad,
I died a death that I repeat
when I think of what we had

I don’t have the words to capture
your loss, or even mine;
you made a choice to end it and
we can’t go back in time.
If only I’d been there with you,
if just to hold your hand,
it was your decision, I agree:
the act I understand.
But doing it all by yourself,
I weep in my concern.
To share it with me afterwards
I don’t know what we learned.

I ask forgiveness for the loss
of trust, of faith, of life.
The phone call left a searing wound
created by the knife.
I know you had to say the words so
I’d know that they were real.
After all this time it doesn’t change
The loss I’m meant to feel.
Giving life then taking life;
two opposites, at least.
The first, a momentary bliss,
the last, a lifelong beast that
tastes forgiveness with a finger
pointing back at me
and laughs at penance knowing
some truths can’t set you free.