after Donna Tartt

If there was ever a night to forgive
clumsy feet and hands reaching for
the unutterable,

we had reached it. Before leaving,
you had kissed your mother, even
your father,

both of whom would outlive you. This
is not the way the world should end,
fifty miles from home, earth reaching
up to take back

what it created long ago. Try as we may
to avoid it, lives dwindle. Try as we may to
avoid it, we are left with

blood-stained clothes and love, so much
love and no containers to fill it with.
Your mother sentenced

to collect dead children like stamps or
dust in corners. Your mother fumbling
against the darkest edge

of the universe from which all light must
reflect again, which is to say there is
a version of this life

where everything we’ve lost has already
been returned to us. I loved…