Visiting my Friend after the Death of her Son

by Ellen Bass

Thirteen years ago she'd brought him home,
this child who'd never had a home.
Nights, she tied her wrist to his
with a satin ribbon so he could sleep,
as if she could repair the dark
when he woke alone, his blood mother
gone for a trick, a fix, the burn
of urine days-old, the bars of his crib
pulling in and out of focus.
Was it an accident? suicide?
She can't help asking over and over,
as if she didn't know it's useless,
she has to grind the questions,
she's begun to turn the mill.
It's going to be a long haul,
I say, as if I know anything,
as if, even at times like this,
words are better than nothing.
As if I were still her lover,
I press her to me
too long, too hard, as if
her flesh would remember mine,
as if she cared, as if she had not begun
the journey that would take her away,
make her into an animal
we have no name for, as if
when she swallowed a spoonful
of the soup set before her
and said this is good
she would remember
to take another spoonful.
Her hair was combed, her t-shirt stained.
She sat on the couch working over
the story, the fight with his girlfriend,
the young policemen at the door, stiff
in their pressed blue cloth, telling her,
as if she'd believe them,
as if they hadn't gotten it wrong.