The world is breaking
my door down--I hold you, my broken
heart, my little song

bird--I hope you will survive
to see the sun rise again, behind the clouds blossoming
like amanita over the cities of the dead--I am a silhouette

of myself, burned against the backdrop
of a nursery, arms curled around you, little bug, little
joy-bringer. Let me tell you

this much--you are loved, you are so much more
than hope--so much like your father, your nose
pert, your eyes bluer

than blood--blood brings starbursts to the surface
of our skin, brings tears, and there are enough
to put out the fires raging

through the glass bodies of buildings--remember
this: endure what you can, continue
breathing, eat what you can

when you can and be open
to trusting
someone you've never met, but don't give them your name--

your true name, little gem, little sorrow--tell them
you are a sparrow, tell them
you are a lark singing after the bombs drop,

tell them your mother said so--
Pretend you remember me
even if you can't see

my face in your memories--
I was here. You were here.
My arms cradled you while all the cradles burned.