Challenging Poetry

to Caleb, seven years later.

Every year in April,
I realize that I've said goodbye
to even more of you—the
shape of your nose, the softness
of your hair, the length of your hand
which I tried so hard
to convince myself that you would
wrap around my pinky finger, only
to realize it was still. you were still.
the sound of the ventilator—its
breath moving your body. the steady
tick of the heart monitor—so fast.
too fast. the exact shade of blue
on your name tag—the way “baby boy”
was crossed out and your name
drawn in with a different pen. I still
know of those details, but memory
fades, and all I have left when
I close my eyes and look at you
is the height of your cot, the stench
of the NICU, the taste of bitter salt.

line count: 21
prompt: goodbye
free verse