echo park pieta
 
She remembers that foggy morning on the bus;
abandoned to sleep in her lap,
his small hands twined 'round her strong forearm,
damp hair plastered to his forehead,
she brushed away with kisses
and inhaled his scent of milk and need.
 
This evening at a bus stop,
she struggles with his heavy body
in her withered arms.
His breath, once so sweet
labors with each heartbeat,
and his blood stains
her faded housecoat.
 
She remembers
when his soft skin was just caramel
and not blemished with Old English script,
clown faces, spider webs,
and women with flowing raven hair and crystal teardrops.
When his velvet eyelids
moved to the rhythm of childish dreams,
instead of not moving at all.
 
His head lolls back,
the weight maligning an ancient shoulder.
She braces for the impact
of the moment;
the spirit leaving his body...
worse than the pain of
his entry into this world.
 
His head on her shoulder-
her scalding tears,
can't soften his death mask.
Sorrow has no sheen,
no patina to disguise her loss.
 
There was nothing noble,
in the death of her only child.
He was no savior,
though he was loved-
and will be missed.