Sunday, March 25, 2012


Warm. He was heat,
A little radiating handful.
Pink and perfect,
Except for the mouth that hung open and odd.
Dark tendrils still wet, plastered to his tiny scalp
After his first—his only bath.
A lullaby of apologies,
Then the gentle pressure of his form,
The curvature of his spine
Was lifted out of my hands.
He was gone,
And my arms hung limp beside my treacherous body.