Their loss is always news
even if you’ve written
heartfelt elegies already.

Among the stones 
Virginia Woolf packed in her pockets
I bet that two of them were
for her mother and her father
before she walked carefully
to the bottom of the world.

When your parents close their eyes
two moons eclipse your sun
and a distinct absence
begins to follow you

like a timid dog
at a certain distance
trying not to scare you
but keen on its mission
the way some animals
trace the scent of grief

or stones sink
the full depth of a river

or an orphan can tell an orphan 
from across the room.