Same Song

I smelled his sadness through the phone. 

The furnace rasped. His skin relapsed. 

I heard him feel tiny with anger. His.

Possessive pronoun, the risen Christ.

The answer to unasked torment. If I whisper

this prayer at this time of day, all harm 

shall be lifted. We believe in same song

poured across a child's forehead. A garden 

belonging to the child. A child's garden 

remotely sacred. Scared. I dreamed of holding. 

I held the child unwanted. I was told 

of the possibility of being 

unwanted. Had not occurred to me. 

I could only see compartments that would not 

touch. Too much to save. Too harsh to crave.