To the boy beneath the floor
When the old masters painted dead children,
they were given wings. There were golden skies
and smiles wreathed the faces of angels.
You were never a painting. You were
repetends of "sorry mummy, sorry mummy"
"I'll be good, I'll be good"; her newest crush
a metaphor for bruise and break. These walls
were your stanzas; the floorboards your envoi.
She was busy making more poems to bury.
Your elegy broke screaming from her lips.