All pain is but a feather mapping brittle invisibility
inside the bloodwork and vascular terrain--
a throbbing, the skin a shell and tender thin
hides the ruination, the intricate detail and fire.

Compared to this

a child, threesome and beautifully shrill and never
for one moment when waking still, my heart of hearts.
A tiny gunslinger, a sonic boom, a bumble-bee's sting
inside the red and bloody room that is my brain.

Does one still the wind

or bow the trees? Or ask the devil for relief when glaring
the sun makes enemy of the orbit of ones eyes?
No, not when Chelsea cries. For the petal stain upon her
hand that flowered but a moment ago, her study of perfection.

She begs, make it better.

Long silence speaks a truth. I cannot, repair, not hers
not mine. One pain no less than the other in brutal voice
in lack of choice, it is sadly and simply there. We cuddle
with our tears, hers dry first. There there Mommy, there there.