What not to say

is: I held you when you were a baby,
the smallest particle in my universe;
how we define sums and multiples
or fractions and division are the genesis of tears.
 
Lesson: if you see a dying man never ask him Why, 
nor tell him there is no answer,
nor how folding the sleeves of your shirt 
across the back made me want to lift 
you again and again from the floor. What not to say
is: In this moment, I believe in you,
the way the lessons of your trumpet 
believe in the day you will call them
all, one by one, into Taps. Belief is unspeakable
the way holding you was when you were asleep.