‘I’m Sorry’ As A Ritual

It’s cold for May, but I’m sweating 

under the weight of a long to-do list, 

pushing a red wheelbarrow like a 

prayer to the garden. I leave it in the backyard 

to sulk and find my daughter leaning over 

a snail I’ve crushed, confusion and panic

shadow her face, an arrow 

through the sun. I could tell her 

death can be random and painful, or

power is often unearned and dangerous.

I move the remains to the bushes to die 

in the cover of shade, dignity, the illusion 

that I don’t cause pain and suffering. 

I wipe tears from her speckled face.

Sometimes we make a mistake and there is nothing, 

nothing we can do but watch the pieces shatter.