Crimson velvet fetus,
you held a name once
in tiny, tight fists
suffering a leper's curse
with hands like thorns.

It ate you, all of you
from heart to lungs
to strawberry lips,
until you emerged from
the womb in sterile,
white cloth;
not squalling,
but silent.

They said you died
without ever drawing breath,
but according to law you
were never really born.

You didn't hear me,
you cannot hear me,
but in the pale dawn of
that night, she named you
through quivering lips
instead of a pen.

Little brother,
your name was Jake.

10/10/2008

Author's Note: For Jake: you are not forgotten.

Posted on 03/28/2010
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