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when they knew she had died
the daughter crumpled to the floor
like a wrinkled dress fallen from its hanger
shapeless and spreading like a shadow.

he had seen her at the hospital
before they left for oregon:
her eyes distant and fearful,
her skin bruised from the fall
her neck fragile like her voice,
whispering jokes to the end.

how often do they come to school
carrying the weight of an expansive grief-
a hole left untended waiting to swallow
everything on its edges.

this thief leaves no clues
toward his intentions.

from the abyss the survivors
live surrounded by flowers.
her roses ripe in the sunshine
leading up the driveway
and into the world.
her body floated away in
that icy river in a foreign land.

the storm is coming
the voices remind us from behind
as we race up the stairs to escape
the soft whispers that never go quiet.

the son and the daughter
have suffered since,
but pain is just one part
of this cavalcade.