The Afterlife of the Unborn

It makes me cold to think of her. It makes me bleed.
But still she comes, reminding me. A small repeat, a coda.
I’ve gendered her because a daughter’s what I know the most.
A small girl, motherless and gone. The smallest craft,
the drifting boat, the disappearing coast.
And who authors the current, who thought that up?
I’ll leave the beacons on for you, despite it. Every night.
Ablaze is where you leave me. I was gone, but I’ve returned.
Daughter, little sailor, always check the fire: you’ll find me there.