He is crying
and pulling at his face.
Maybe I gave it to him too soon.
His eyes have the look of someone
who climbed into bed
only to find a giant hole
and now he is falling.
He tries to tell me about
all the innocent people
but I can’t hear him
under the covers.
I go to hug him
but I remind him
of the mothers
in the trains
when their arms could still hug.
I’m so mad at myself
I should have been there
I should have stopped it
why didn’t someone stop it.
Such a heavy book for a heart with no walls.
Maybe I gave it to him too soon
or maybe it was his heart they needed
and he was just born
too late.