Sea-Cliff Song

My child upon the wind,
a hawk,
a speck,
away from me,
not a red moon
entrail-reading
on the sea cliffs.
Gone, she hopes,
not dead.

Gone, forever,
a singsong
she cackles into
the bluebells.
Gathering flowers,
one, two,
a small pink one,
this she places
on the spot
where the first
used to sleep.
The red moon one,
she sees next,
Blood. she narrows her eyes,
calculating
how many miles,
how many pleas,
will make him
gone
not dead.
Instead,
the answer is
dinner,
incongruent
but fitting--she
cannot live on grief
alone,
She gives the flowers
to her daughter's absence,
and she sings
the rocks
and the calling birds in
honor of
her son.

Her shrill voice haunting
a circle
in me like the
birds.
her mouth
the wings,
moving, old,
drumming endless
awareness
into the earth,
one heartbeat at a time,
and
swoosh, swoosh,
silent snow erases her,
blindly interrupting
until all seen
is white circling
specks,
while below,
she is still,
pressed and flat,
a red stain
against the
sea-cliffs,
that beat with
the wings of a bird.