A Moan

a soft gasp of perfume
smoke,
a silent scent of shadow
when she hugs me

not the incensed spice of 
winding sheets,
not the powdered puff of 
receiving blankets

but in between 
a somewhere in
between

like the space between
her daughter's Birth
her daughter's Death
a space too short
always
for any mother to call
Life

her shoulder blades
beneath my fingers
cut and press a way
in

her daughter's hands
unseen atop mine
cup and cradle the
sharpening bones
(so brittle)
(so fragile)

twice
each week

sdmrogers 23 january 2013