April 2nd

This night thirteen years ago my son was preparing to die,
alone in a park in a country across the ocean.

How I detest the yahrzeit candle I’ve lit
for dragging me through his last hours, reminding me
of the last insult he spat out; of how he must
have struggled to do what has to go
against every instinct.

I’m terrified, he told Katherine
his last night with us—that last night.

April 3rd

All that’s left of the day is a streak
of gray on the horizon, but the flame
still jitters in its glass jar.

Women have given birth during these twenty-four hours,
young men have died of causes natural
or unnatural. The planets have spun
and orbited according to their laws,
indifferent to the pain of humans.

Once the candle gutters out
I’ll be released from this vigil.
I’ll put myself to bed below the pale rectangle
the streetlight casts on the ceiling
and take refuge in sleep.