like feathers, weightless

by Jordan Trethewey

“But death must come to them differently,  / so close to the beginning. / As though they had always been / blind and weightless.”

- Louise Gluck, The Drowned Children

We are here for short time, but

twice as long as 19th Century death.

To worry about reaching 80 must

seem indulgent to child ghosts, come

bearing witness to

what might have happened to them

if endings were written differently.

Do they desire what they didn’t know, so

quickly plucked from family, close to

their hearts? Perhaps they hover

to warm with eternal energies, the

closest activity to touch. As in the beginning.

We are left standing, as

if ready to follow, numb, though

clutching soft souvenirs they

once held. Wore. If only we had

been there at the right moment! Always

repeated when weather’s been

similar. We wish to be blind,

others’ offspring invisible. And

blown away like feathers, weightless.

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