for Arlo
The black night of old constellations
has not yet thought to open its eyes.
You are tucked in your car seat,
bundled against the pre-dawn cold.
In the glow of the dome light,
I lean close to say a last goodbye.
My lips touch your hand,
I look up at your face
and when I whisper goodbye Arlo
you simply shake your head,
not using your newest word no
but something sadder, something
that echoes in the darkness
after I’ve kissed your father,
our cheeks damp,
hugged your mom until we felt
soft woman against woman.
Your slow shake of the head
surrounds me on the path,
and across what’s dark and vast
stars record a history of loss.
In the lit house
I see your grandfather,
head white beneath the lamp,
he who had asked
when we awoke side by side,
who am I saying goodbye to today?
I step back into the house of him,
into my wish to fathom
the unending dimensions of light
one might give to another.