Last Monday you threw yourself,
your body, dressed in red chemise,
in front of a train.
It was your insatiable hunger
for a more tenderhearted world.
your husband said at Shiva.
Now no one will get to see
what you saw from inside
your snow globe where you lived,
shaking and shaking,
breaking into shards
of un-grieved grief, unanswered need.
I will remember
how tirelessly, with your son,
you worked to help him turn
sounds—coming through the implant
behind his ear—into speech,
speech into understanding.
Everyone will remember
how you skipped across the dance floor,
waving pastel and magenta scarves,
and prayed to angels.
O, dear Zea, your human bones
thin as the bones of a sparrow—
the way you could fold
your body to fit anywhere.
Rest now. You have succeeded.