She is a widening bowl for absence—
unending inclination grieving
the emptied months, the cellophaned
boxes of pastel candles, long ago shelved
alongside cake pans in animal shapes.
No nursling’s milky grin, arresting
her heart. So long, stellar IQ. Gene pool,
dimming. Dammed. Still, the cosmic
stardust hourly sifts
through the atmosphere. Celestial legacies
minutely embed
each atom, in its descent—
carbon, salt, iotas of iron—infusing us all.
Cached within the most intimate cells,
even the vacant womb cradles
hints of heaven,
hope, a borrowed moon,
on the wane. Somewhere,
even now, unexpected
and unembraced, a slip of a life
waxes strong, perhaps
gravitating our way. O windfall child
of the longest dream, Come,
name us.
