Nocturne
       

Evening breaks kindly,

                        without bruise         or blow.

Owling air,

                                black bowl,                 wreath of fireflies.

*

I wash his hands and face with castile soap,

                        bear up

                                          my greenstick heart.

                        Wait for his parents                who don't yet know

                his new moon stare—

                        small boy,

                                                a dim road,

                                                                his face                 in the black water

His eyes,                 I can't close.

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Copyright © 2018 Stacy R. Nigliazzo All rights reserved
from Sky the Oar
Press 53
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission