With an Open Fist

My son's rage
is a fist curled tight
a foot stomped harder
a path carved by tears back
to a birth that was an end

before it was a beginning

It is common she said
for our children to experience rage
on a deeper level
to relive their loss in every loss

it is common she said
for our children to need more
reassurance that we are going
no where

We withstand their screams
deflect their arms raised
embrace their disintegration-
soothe their heart
and swim inside-beside
that pool of loss with them
to witness
what we can't touch

Sam arrived in my room
at midnight
and crawled into bed
with his eyes closed

Then he reached
underneath the pillow
in his sleep
to find my hand-
with his fist wide open

dedicated with gratitude to the six women gathered