My youngest daughter requests facts.
Floral-printed cards litter the counter,
attempting to temper our loss
with calligraphy in pastel hues.
Grief is a journey, curved letters proclaim.
But no map exists for this dark forest.
No charted stars beckon from the endless, inky night.
Trail markers blur; the path doubles back on itself,
creating an infinity our son will never see.
My daughter must know:
Where is his body now? At this moment?
My mind searches for euphemisms to warm
metal slabs. To keep her brother, terrified
of the dark, out of the frozen pitch.
He’s in a drawer. Like the lasagna?
Are the organs removed like Egyptians?
If we sprinkle him in the lake, will the fish eat him?
When we eat the fish, will he then be in us?
— CAMILLE LEBEL
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