“On the Death of a Child,” by Merrijane Rice

Being a mother also,
I know I can’t uproot
the pain planted in your chest,
or untangle your frayed thoughts.
I can’t sweep the darkness
from under your sheltered edges
or smooth peace over you
like a clean sheet.

But I’ll try anyway—
weep with you and mourn awhile,
caress calm into your spent heart,

and remember with you
how David howled for Absalom,
and how when the Lord wept,
all eternity shook.