“On the Death of a Child,” by Merrijane Rice

Being a mother also, I know I can’t uproot the pain planted in your chest, or untangle your frayed thoughts. I can’t sweep the darkness from under your sheltered edges or smooth peace over you like a clean sheet.

But I’ll try anyway— weep with you and mourn awhile, caress calm into your spent heart,

and remember with you how David howled for Absalom, and how when the Lord wept, all eternity shook.