Today is our firstborn’s birthday—and you
are missing the party.
You’ve been pulled away on
death’s urgent business.
Yet when the membrane that divides us
is at its thinnest—
and I am very quiet, I feel
your hand reaching out—
stretching to cross—straining
to breach the sticky miasma of between.
Is there a kindness in this strange proximity?
Perhaps. The birthday party has been
postponed—it gets dark and rough here
on the wilderness side of the membrane.
I am using one of your pens. I am holding them all
hostage. Come back and fetch them.
Birthday with Empty Hands by Donna Spruijt-Metz |Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
