On the night I tried to stop the world
her body was already melted,           broken
its ties with the celestial drumbeat circle,           the nurse
kept saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but surely
there’s a pulse?
Check again.

I wasn’t told to go Scorched Earth.
I would’ve gone Scorched Earth,
but on the night before she was healthy,           happy
as a clam, whatever the fuck a clam really is—
is it a fancy pearl holder or a fish?—
or as happy as one of those animatronic bass
in your crusty grandfathers’ dens.

The next person who tells me there is always a silver lining
I will burn with all my midnight oil.
My love wasn’t patient and it isn’t kind,
it was conditional on the promise I would be
her mother for longer,           longer
than a few years.

I don’t care about my job or the oceans
or the polar bears or the ever-enclosing sun—
I would sell all your souls to the Devil
just to bring my daughter home.

I would trade all of you in, and Hades would warn,
Just don’t look back—why the fuck
would I look back? After I drown you
in the Styx she will finally
have a future written in the stars.