Hush, my dear, sit against the wall

Wear darkness like a blanket, and smother yourself.

Like when I was a child, the turtle in its shell,

Anything is better when dark than when red.

…

Slick are the sounds coming under the door.

We are never to show them when we fear

I’m sick and I’m dizzy, like a boat that’s unmoored.

The worst is the waiting, the length of the silence.

…

And to think, to presume, your child is safe

But now, we’re covered by the wrong kind of blood.

If this had happened in the books on the shelf

Maybe then they would properly grieve.