On a platform, I heard someone call out your name:
No, Laetitia, no.
It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing,
but I rushed in, searching for your face.
But no Laetitia. No.
No one in that car could have been you,
but I rushed in, searching for your face:
no longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two.
No one in that car could have been you.
Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen.
No longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two:
I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen:
I was told not to look. Not to get attached—
I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.
I was told not to look. Not to get attached.
It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.
On a platform, I heard someone calling your name.
~ ~ Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Published in A New Hunger, Ausable Press, March, 2007.
Still Life
(for Emma)
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Still, a breath away from life,
a heartbeat away from breath,
still my baby lies
her frozen hand
reaching out
to receive
the gift that was
no longer
mine to give.
Still, everything is still,
until I cry her cry and
shatter that stillness
forever.
~ ~ Jim Murdoch
Published in This Is Not About What You Think (Fandango Virtual, 2010).
