Holly Day

 

I think about them dying and wonder

how I can be expected

to hand their bodies over to strangers

to be buried in a grave

far from home, far from me

 

when all I really want is to be allowed to

carry bits of them with me

for the rest of my own life

the fingerbones of children in my pocket

or on a string around my neck,

twin rosaries of vertebra wrapped loose

around my wrists

 

so I can raise my hands

to my lips, in prayer, to speak

to a family

I will never let go