Rachel Weeping, 2021

by William Hoover

Blocked love, like breastmilk,
Pools and pangs;
Seeks a mouth, an open ocean;
Burns throbbing on the heart;
Goes underground.

Sure
Platitudes of other sons,
Of love translated, sleight-of-hand,
To children wrapped in familiar skins—
But love comes barcoded from the factory,
Intimate as a rainbow,
Manna for a day, a face.
When night falls
We know Emily was right:
It must be swept into closets, cupboards, plastic totes—
Lids, doors clicking closed,
Each one a slab across the heart-deep spring.
The stone slowly crumbling to a scar.

One day small arms will clasp away this crust of years;
In heaven’s gates then, for a time,
There will be tears.

William Hoover spends his days in central Wisconsin, working with words and numbers.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy