My child died on a night like this.

The world was buried with snow then.
I rocked her, heavy as a stone on my shoulder.
I have read that death has square toes.
It is a house without walls.
Or is it hardened, malformed heart?

I stayed through that last breath.
Nothing sang and nothing sings yet.
No one holds my heart like a chin.
Or claws the numb within.

published in The Leaf Gatherers: Pocket Poems by River Poets Journal and Lilly Press (c) 2008