Pieta sans corpus
Daddy knelt at his son's crib
counted fingers and toes
kissed each one amazed at miracles
proudly laughed at how far and fast he could pee out of his Pampers,
nail his mother who'd bent too far,
played peekaboo and rubbed his belly until
baby giggles laughed from his toes
and squeezed themselves into the immortality of his aging DNA,
that made him long for home on workdays and
rushed his way from business trips,
invent stuff to do to extend their days until
it was the appointed time to let go
to let him launch
enjoy his present and future tenses
listen to the stories
NOT to be on his knees, numb in front of all these strangers
alone
clutching a past, heartbroken
fingers bleeding in a carved granite etching
all that's left of a son for him to hold
letters traced the way his eyes could scan the numbers
find his son's jersey even in a pack so he could yell and wave
let him know he was there
that he's still there, their bodies separated
none to embrace this time when the whistle blew
the bell tolled,
a pieta without a body.
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