The
moth wing trace of your ghost,
hovers, murmurs
crepe paper blessings.
You beat a soft rhythm in life,
hours counted on fingers,
each breath a hope.
We whispered, wanted
to tell you the way,
to cradle your tininess.
You were a face, eyes closed,
your world never grew greater
than four clear walls.
And the make believe angels
who gathered in gowns
were wishing the wrong wish,
the
small sigh that stopped you.
We lift you with memories -
sweet first cry, the tender creases
of
newborn child.
Deep where our hearts
began to know,
the
loss of you outpours.
K. S. Moore is the author of ‘What frost does under a crescent moon’— The Seventh Quarry Press. She was selected for Poetry Ireland Introductions, placed third in the Waterford Poetry Prize and received a Pushcart Prize nomination.
Work has recently been published by Arlen House and Black Cat Poetry Press. Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, YouTube: @ksmoorepoet
More work by K.S. Moore
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