Pebbles for a Headstone

She lives her life raw
no adornments
nothing gentle
moving with ghostly steps
murmuring the question
no one wants to hear
for each of us has asked it
too, if only in the hidden recesses
of a mind tortured with sorrow:
“Is there a God?”

The implication of such a
blasphemous question
leaves us quaking in fear
yet there is the tombstone
so tiny, almost a pebble
under which lies her heart
her joy, all the laughter
that once filled the air.

Gone this sweet child
with milky skin
dimples filled with
the sheer joy of being alive.

Please don’t murmur your platitudes.
I do not want to be comforted.

I want to feel the razor of loss
that cuts my heart to shreds
for the alternative is to
turn to stone, to never feel
again, to climb into
that tiny grave
curl around that child
of my womb
letting my warmth
enter her cold body
though it warms her not.

Soon I am as cold
as she, my soul waiting
to join her for life without her
seems impossible.

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