For Kiet

I did not know what to say to you
that Friday before break
when you sat in front of me
trembling with the effort
of holding all the torn up
pieces of your life together
in some semblance of normalcy.

What do you say to a boy
whose father has just died,
who doesn’t want to talk about it,
who doesn’t want to go home,
who just wants to go to class
and answer questions about run-ons,
whose hands are so small,
whose face is so solemn
behind thin wire glasses,
whose life has been
so irrevocably altered?

It occurred to me,
as we sat in silence,
that I had never seen you smile,
not even when I said good morning
or praised your work in class.
If daily life already made you
so serious and intent,
then how much more
will this tragedy
bow you down?
How will you bear
this terrible blow
in all the days that lie ahead?

I wanted to embrace you,
but could only touch your shoulder.
I wanted to have a heart to heart,
but can only write this poem,
which you will never read,
which cannot help you,
which can only hold
my steeping sorrow for you
and the hope that somehow
you will make it through
this awful, lonely journey,
and that some seed of joy
more powerful than any poem
will someday flower in your heart
and make you whole.

That is my prayer for you,
that is the longing
of these lines
that go forth
to be heard,
to be felt,
to be answered.