“And we, who have always thought

 of happiness as rising, would feel

 the emotion that almost overwhelms us

 whenever a happy thing falls.”

-Rainer Maria Rilke



Her eyes.

Must have had her eyes.

In death – those eyes – her eyes

see patterns in the dark.

Those swirls knowing nothing of life.

No visage of children playing, 

no knowledge of growth,

no touch of warmth.

Only warmth was in mother.

The womb is now a graveyard.

A bloodline


Child never to know the breast

only to suckle the wanness of death.

But child is mother

and mother is also sacrificed.


No garden for this flower-like death

yet the wind’s purpose

is to sing the song of the anonymous.

Profundity lies in being unnamed

and intangible.

Delight in the sorrow of memory.


Endings are reserved for the living.

Blood in this mother’s veins spreads like ivy

and dreams, like grief, only penetrate

from the dark.

Endings are reserved for the living.

Endings fracture what is not here.


There is no conclusion

that hides in reflective tears.

Close those eyes.

Seal those eyes,

unburied like sickness.

Sheath the flesh but not a mother’s love.


The reasoning is umbilical,

for one cannot leave a shadow behind.



- D. Garcia-Wahl