Fairy Tale

I cannot wear my father’s body—
we are a poor fit—

as my son will not
wear mine, now

or ever. To feel myself pinned
between the two boulders

of my body and my duty.
To always be the one leaving,

never the left behind—
such language

has the ring of truth
which resembles

a wedding ring
which resembles

the corona around the sun
on the day I’ve chosen

to drop my children
in the woods—

so many stories
end with a man

watching a trail
of bread crumbs

disappear and not
knowing how to feel.

There are so many
names for God;

if they rhyme with father
you’re saying them wrong.