By Susan Plett

I'm supposed to have forgotten you
child oh so briefly mine

as though motherhood
had some minimum time requirement
and the scented mist of your infant breath
did not breathe healing into the cracks
my father's death earthquaked into my heart

as though the small solid weight of your body
did not anchor my aching heart to earth
and the pink and white I dressed you in
your only Sunday in church
had no dreams pressed
into its folds and creases

as though the first whole note
to be heard above my sadness
was not the sound of your name

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