When the dust settles on the grave,
the investigation begins. Dust for prints,
who’s to blame? Check every angle of motive
and spend countless hours of speculation.
None of it resurrects you.
No matter how often thought follows lead, the facts
remain concrete. I loved you. Valued you. And tore
up my knees praying over you.
What could I
have done differently
to save your life?
I spin the clock backward
toc-tic, toc-tic, until your heartbeat forms
in my womb. Rebirth of soul cradled in cells.
The tension of potential and unknowns recalibrated.
You are still not here.
Though I must pack up my crime scene tools,
press into living beyond your grave, I love you. I value you.
And I would do motherhood all over again still knowing…
You are not here.
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