Stillbirth

They cleaned and dressed it, showed it to her arms, Half a bread loaf, a large potato, The pathetic little body perfect And complete, its ten fingers evolved from stars. She lets his inertia crawl upon her, A drowned boy pulled from her waters, A Donatello bambino, all marble And no pulse, a swift pietà. The days Have drifted into months of twilit wonder. The shuddering never ends, a stuffed panda, Blue paint cans, Hans Christian Andersen. For her, it’s reflex, this pushing away— For others, who don’t call, change the subject, Safe distance from taboo. She’s the one, The jackpot winner struck by lightning, The sacrificial virgin in whose ear The angel mouthed his promise then took it back, The poor girl handed a hand-me-down doll, Her son so good, so quiet, even the state Treats him as a do-over, a false start, Nothing on file despite her full breasts. He starves for context, his name the whole legend, A lie of omission, a placeholder, A brief lull in the conversation.