I have no answer to the blank inequity

    of a four-year-old dying of cancer.

    I saw her on TV and wept

    with my mouth full of meatloaf.

    I constantly flash on disasters now；

    red lights shout Warning. Danger.

    everywhere I look.

    I buckle him in， but what if a car

    with a grille like a sharkbite

    roared up out of the road？

    I feed him square meals，

    but what if the fist of his heart

    should simply fall open？

    I carried him safely

    as long as I could，

    but now he's a runaway

    on the dangerous highway.

    Warning. Danger.

    I've started to pray.

    But the dangerous highway

    curves through blue evenings

    when I hold his yielding hand

    and snip his minuscule nails

    with my vicious-looking scissors.

    I carry him around

    like an egg in a spoon，

    and I remember a porcelain fawn，

    a best friend's trust，

    my broken faith in myself.

    It's not my grace that keeps me erect

    as the sidewalk clatters downhill

    under my rollerskate wheels.

    Sometimes I lie awake

    troubled by this thought：

    It's not so simple to give a child birth；

    you also have to give it death，

    the jealous fairy's christening gift.

    I've always pictured my own death

    as a closed door，

    a black room，

    a breathless leap from the mountaintop

    with time to throw out my arms， lift my head，

    and see， in the instant my heart stops，

    a whole galaxy of blue.

    I imagined I'd forget，

    in the cessation of feeling，

    while the guilt of my lifetime floated away

    like a nylon nightgown，

    and that I'd fall into clean， fresh forgiveness.

    Ah， but the death I've given away

    is more mine than the one I've kept：

    from my hands the poisoned apple，

    from my bow the mistletoe dart.

    Then I think of Mama，

    her bountiful breasts.

    When I was a child， I really swear，

    Mama's kisses could heal.

    I remember her promise，

    and whisper it over my sweet son's sleep：

    When you float to the bottom， child，

    like a mote down a sunbeam，

    you'll see me from a trillion miles away：

    my eyes looking up to you，

    my arms outstretched for you like night