The Red Box

Still


I'm surrounded by babies in a nursery
and
everyday I see
more come in
and
more go out.
I try to develop a relationship
with each of them through smiles
and
brief goo's
and
gaa's. I see them
wrapped in cotton blankets,
the softness
creating a malleable mold for them to
confide in. They're kicking
and
they’re batting
at the air, as if a fly were sweeping across
their face, landing on their nose,
tickling it with their air thin wings
creating such frustration for their newly
untamed motorized skills.
Completely underdeveloped,
they know nothing of this world
and
yet that's when they're totally innocent,
that's when nothing else matters.
Happiness with smiles
and
sadness with frowns,
and
no reason to be either
with extra baggage
and
emotions. Not tainted by love,
not devoured by hate,
just purity through innocence,
freedom through movement.
And
so here I stand, hovering above a baby
with no name,
with no face,
with no arms
and
no legs.
No heart inside,
no lungs to breathe.
Just an empty blanket
where my baby used to be.
Now she's gone, her name whispered
and
then vanished.
And
all the while I stand
among a few dozen with names
and
families, accompanied by aunts
and
uncles, grandparents
and
cousins, brothers
and
sisters
and
the only one I have to share this moment with
is myself, because the lesson I learned
was not while
giving birth
to a baby girl I thought was alive,
it was the aftermath that took me by surprise
in that my baby was I
while inside,
and
just like me she died.