Little Fingers

I was twelve and
Did not know it,
Tiny fingers that never wrapped
Around my own, red and raw.
You had come too soon and
Did not know it
 
Twelve years old is not old
Enough to know loss
It’s in the look, in the voice
You see them break
Like a wave
Break like glass
 
Thirty turns around the clock
Is not old enough to speak
Loss, to give it name or shape
Like a face seen at night.
 
How very peculiar it was when you died, four
Became five April became May you became
A photograph
That sits on a table
In a house.