Written On The Due Date Of A Son Never Born

Echinacea, bee balm, aster. Trumpet vine
I watch your mother bend to prune, water

sluicing silver from the hose –
another morning
you will never see. Summer solstice: dragonflies flare
the unpetaled rose. 6 a.m.
& already
she’s breaking down, hose flung to the sidewalk

where it snakes & pulses in a steady
keening glitter, both hands to her face. That much

I can give you of these hours.
That much only.
First & blossom forged by salt, trellising

your wounded helixes against our days,
tell us how to live
for we are shades, facing

caged the chastening sun. Our eyes
are scorched & lidless. We cannot bear your light.