of leaving

I am not supposed to
mourn the loss of
you.  There is no place
in this culture where
a parent is allowed to hold grief
for a child’s leaving home:
not this burning sorrow
marring the skin. They say

grow a hobby
and learn  how to
knit my longings into
a quilt. Volunteer or
adopt a kitten.
Drape my sorries over
a professional: a therapist,
a counselor, a psychologist,
but not spill onto

your friends
or neighbors
for it is unnatural
to be looking back at
my whole adult life

during which
I carried you too closely–
first cradled
inside my body and next
between the folds of
my arms, and  I
tell them you
were an intact tiny
egg with the bluest
shell
I wrapped inside
the cotton-soft sling
slung across
my full breasts
or my strong back
your body and mine

swaying to the
song only we
could hear and sing.
The way you used to stiffen
your little arms and legs
fighting hours of colic pain.
The way I counted
my hours of sleep
your ounces of consumed milk
the number of wet/dry diapers
the infinite possibilities
an infant/toddler/preschooler/teenager
could stumble and falter–

I am not supposed to
harbor my grief inside this
slackened sling
the vessel within which I sing

and no song would fill me.