Poetry

Weaning, at Any Age

That moment. A car slides away, turns the corner and disappears. In it my son. And he is gone. My daughter, who was here, —what, a minute ago— is now, merged somewhere among others on a bus, as the doors with a soft exhalation ease shut. Or just that they cannot keep waving and walking backward—they turn, must turn and face another kind of day. And hollow with a hunger such as I’ve never known, all of me, heavy with a weight I cannot name, am slumped in the place where we’d released each other though the clutching heart flies…

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