CrownMeOf-Roses

It's late. My wife rolls over and our baby somersaults in unison; life ripples underneath my fingertips. The dark bores into me. I walk a lonely track through a wood, to the edge, where light waits for me. No phone signal. Rope, tyre. I wonder how many sons have been buried, how many fathers have cried. How many parents have divorced after the death— whether we're next. Branches creak overhead, and the earth seems to swallow me when I sink to my knees. No one can see grief here. Back home, I am strong. My wife pauses before she kisses me— we make love to avoid the silence; no condom, no cares. As the dark returns and our eyelids