still born

Born.  Clean from the womb.
I held it, wrapped it;
rocked it against my breast for warmth,
because it was mine.

Her.  A miniature model of me:
cotton bud fingers,
nails.  Slivers of crystal,
hands uncurling like Spring buds.
A cheek I kissed,
dove wing soft.
She opened her mouth
for the first dew breath.
The first sigh of the lungs,
pink gums like cherries.
Like my first sunrise,
her eyes opened.
Pale, fresh.  Unseeing.
Perfection.

Nothing would separate us:
I had a duty to her
and that duty I would perform.
She had a life to live,
and I would live it with her.
Sprigs of curling hair,
like golden Christmas ribbon.

Asleep.

Dove wings are white; too white.
And their feathers too cold.
Ribbon breaks; cherries ferment.  Buds die.
Like a marble figure she lay,
tiny against my breast.
Her lungs had sighed their last.
Sunrise turned to dusk.

It took a woman in white to part her from me,
to carry her to God.
And I still despised the arms around her,
I fancied little wings,
hair in a curling crown.
She left.
Still born.