It’s Riley’s second birthday,
without us.
He would have been
eight.
Instead of dead.
Instead of chalk dust.
Instead of oysterless chips of pearls.
Instead of a giant,
insatiable pit.
Instead of a collage of photos
and cutout red crayoned hearts.
Instead of our tears.
Instead of a vanilla birthday cake
bejeweled with his name.
Instead of a ghost,
haunted by us.
Instead of frozen
at six and a half.
Instead of this fucking poem.

Beautiful piece, Chanel, and a great study of humans as flawed and closed to the grief of others.I’m lifted by you and your work. Keep it coming.
Thank you again, Chanel, for writing such beautiful sentiments here and for sharing your winning poem. Sending you much love.