Raising Grief

Published in Duende.

Mourning was born,
colicky, wet-eyed.
Trying to console her,
sleep-deprived,
I pushed her
in a stroller,
tried every octave.

Those first years
bled nights—
falling asleep
with her in my arms,
breathing in unison,
protecting the fontanel
on her fragile head.

Now, I know
to feed her sweet-bread,
and help her self-soothe
when she seethes.

Before she runs off
to climb a tree,
she nuzzles me
on a park bench,
swinging her legs
like a four-year-old.