In my mind’s eye, I confront him
Holding photos of you.
You had beauty that would have moved Botticelli, Renoir.
He remains blank, uncomprehending.
When you ran across the park towards me
A crowd of unruly angels jostled at your shoulder.
There were no angels jostling the AK-47.
“Papa, I love you to the moon and back,” you would say.
I would hold you close and say,
“I love you from my heart to your heart, wherever you may be.”
It proved to be not enough.
Yet, in the black chaos of grief,
This will prevail.