little lost one

an ordinary morning

— peaceful, calm —

she had no warning of what was to come

—

neither was i warned

immersed in the retelling

of cupid and psyche’s tragic romance was i

eleven, twelve at most

and so i came upon her

enfolded in his arms

sobbing like mad

then i knew only

that her heart had broken

mine was breaking, too

—

she was keening for her dead

for a long-awaited life

miscarried by her treacherous body

hopes for another child

— for her son —

dashed, a bloody mess of broken dreams

a death-knell of finality

—

when i remember all this

i do not know whether you were or were not

i only know that you are no more

and then i weep for you

little brother who might-have-been