The Unnamed
I wonder if she is jealous of widows,
who have a word
that can describe the shade of loss
they have been stained.
I wonder if she stands in his doorway
trying to read it in the bars of his crib,
the neatly folded shirts
he would soon outgrow,
the windows full
of dusty velvet light.
It is not morning
but the night is faded
and slipping away from her.
In between
is a nameless awake.
I imagine a word so small
she holds her breath
when she cuts its fingernails
so impossibly heavy
her spine curls
like a tree trunk over time
cradling its weight
in the slope of her hip –
the turning of the first empty page
halfway through a photo album
the sound from his throat
that she knew she belonged to
before it sounded like “mother”
I wish for her
a name like a rosary
she can run through her fingers
while she walks back down the hall
closes her eyes
and waits for dawn.