When we sang together, we wove notes like silk
I find myself these days caught chanting children’s rhymes instead: red
sky at night, rose rose red. Find myself singing my own lonely lullaby.
Do you sing to her, our daughter? What lullaby
do you weave her from bronze and brass and silk?
what sheets do you lay her between, white or red?
I know what color our blood is together: the red
stained your hands, turned your scream into a lullaby
I woke alone, surrounded by white, hoping for the edge of your skirt: among cotton, silk.
No white sheets here, no green coverlets, but I would still sing you a red silk lullaby.