The boy has died.

One third

her not yet twenty

years.

     Intolerable.

     Unbearable.

Here:

within this rough

underground womb

of dull-winking

hematite,

through the crucible

of her direction,

the memorial

is constructed.

She oversees

the smooth stage’s

raising;

the steel frame’s

enclosure struck

with lights;

white screens,

like windless sails,

unfurled.

His image –

     luminous,

     aflare –

will transcend

the dark &

breach the void.

The boy has died.

She wears the burden

of his absence

with fury –

raw-edged &

     bristling.

— C.Birde, 3/21