the death of a child

She does not speak of the loss,
that lives in her eyes, and
is louder than a word or voice,
the cry that sleeps there.

It would leave if she let it,
but she so fears the pain that
she keeps it locked away,
inside, safe, where it cannot kill her.

So, she smiles with her lips,
only, and leaves it at that,
because it’s all that she can do.
It is all that she can do, except,

at night, when she prays
to see him, again, then falls
asleep knowing to what she
will wake, always: the ache

that only the
left-behind
parent
can
know.