In The Smoke

I keep wanting to show you ordinary things,
like, here's a mortician,
a live on TikTok,
explaining about the rites of modern death.

Then, a question in the comments about infants
She quiets and takes a tiny tray from a shelf.
The picture is in our heads.
The woman says she holds their hands
before they slide into the flame -
she sings to them as they enter:
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

In the comments, a shock of grief.
Parents of terminal children find each other,
in a brief burst of communal connection. 

I want to show it to you.
The picture in my head
the song in my ear
the grief in my torso
I need to hear it echo in your eyes,
and your ears and in your chest.

But our love, too, is in the smoke.