I picture the parents
mangled by a grief so heavy
it is hard to breathe
but hearing about it in my car
I am the opposite
hollowed out by the impossibility
of so much anguish
I float above the facts
desperate to un-know them
my son sings his ABCs
in French
in the backseat
I want to sing with him
to laugh
to call somebody’s God down
to undo this
but part of me also wants to yell at him
wants him to stop painting joy
on top of this day of thrashing souls
I pull over instead
I am late for a meeting
but I climb in the backseat
my face close to his
I try not to cry
as he looks at me
his hands on my face
as wretched images
fill me up
I whisper
no no no
and try to focus on the gift
of his breath.