Finger in the Dust (April 2009)

I could close the curtains
and they didn't shrivel at my touch
or fall, dissolve and split
like hair-line fractures of the flesh
(and birthday candles).

I could hear my children
and they didn't lie so still,
their faces marked by rose-bud moss
that grew and settled in the pores
(still beautiful).

I could fold their smiles
to fit in threads of lullaby dreams
that resonated at my touch, my breath.

There was a stain, on the carpet
(by his chair).
I used to wish it gone -
oh how it lingered, falsely strong.
I hoped their hands would always fit my palm
but not like this, preserved in nursery bliss
with only smoke to breathe.