Beyond weak, she
was now spelling it out
for him, like a mother –
holding the small
fat hand of her
first born, pushing
the stubborn fingers
around, as they
clutched a pencil
to shape the letters
of his own name.
His name.
How many times
had she said it now?
Could she count
how many times
she had laughed it,
asked it, stuttered
and moaned it
and even once –
in the vacancy of
quiet hours –
called for it, loudly
across an ocean
of silence.
ataraxicat 