All the stars that fracture the sky –
they look like a splintered mirror
or pixelated static or
withered harebell scattered carelessly by god.
Is it the night that breaks me
or is it this sod, riddled with weeds
when he was four years old and
would bring me dandelion bouquets?
the prettiest I could find
for my pretty mama
The fate of that tender thing –
of gathered flowers and
I can almost see him waddling towards me
carrying a freshly picked bouquet
with stems smashed together and
a giddy smile.
But there are no more dandelions.
They’ve faded away;
shrunken petals dust the lawn like dying stars.
All I have left is a crescent moon.
A sliced, sharp white
forced to carve itself down
until it is nothing.