Snowglobe

How the body survives such evil gifts, I cannot know.
After that, I can’t lose the sense of a just-shaken snow globe.
Even in the heat of July, flakes cling to my lashes,
blurring the faces of people and clocks.
My body is an instrument of grief, keening for that little girl,
but my mouth stays as silent as 4am.

I have turned this box over in my hands so many times.
I have closed one eye and then the other,
examined it from the inside and the outside,
trying the understand the sense of it, hoping to find a 
crumb of justice.

Always I conclude the same thing.

This was no gift. There is no silver lining and the blizzards keep coming. 
There is just the string of days carrying fear
swaddled in sunshine. 

It will have to be enough.