by Michael Shewmaker

Weightless, the winter constellations tower
              above our poor-lit city. Smoothing the drapes
                           she chose for him, I cannot find the words.
Night is a lesson we must learn, I wrote
               in verse. (She stills his cradle, folds the spread.)
                             And worse, The moonlight is a subtle sword.

There is no answer in this room—where, silent,
              we readied for our unborn son. And now,
                            to endure the hours our loss has won,
she stacks his blocks to spell his name. Listen:
                                           Our grief is what we own.