by Lindsay Rockwell

Each loss fits inside the others.
Each loss folds itself

neatly inside, then quietly
clears its throat of shame.

Holds its eyes up toward day
as my eyelashes dust the floor

again. Again, I count my losses.
Six. Seven. Eight. Sniff

their soft bodies. Watch
their hands reach toward

the tiny gate my pain opens.
My tiny pain gate opens

and each loss scuffles through
hobbling on all fours. Small

mammal. Each with chin up
in hopes to lick a drop of rain.

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Lindsay Rockwell is poet-in-residence for the Episcopal Church of Connecticut and hosts their Poetry and Social Justice Dialogue series. She's recently published, or forthcoming in Calyx, EcoTheo Review, Gargoyle, Radar, and The Dewdrop, among others. Her first collection, Ghost Fires, was published by Main Street Rag in April 2023. She’s received fellowships from Vermont Studio Center and Edith Wharton/The Mount residency. Lindsay is also an oncologist.