no little lips…


no little lips to suckle pert nipples,

no tiny head full-breasted resting,

your brailled areole stupidly stippled:

pointless any emotional investing.


love-leeched lines, so unwitting,

senseless,  night-bedding soaked:

milk drip mocks, no longer befitting;

unblessed – strangled prayers spoke.


long after midnight, starkly alone,

absent hero-husband blithely snoring,

only to God her flayed pain groans:

silent-still baby, powerful goring.


knees buckled on cold, cold floor,

head sunken on tear-wetted arms,

shaken, whip-stripped to very core –

unblessed your umbilical tharms.


pathos prayer written, so apt,

read with sob-shaken diction,

rugged heart not handicapped:

faith-utterance vanquished friction.


no more tears, no more damn dying,

death banished by heavenly hope;

no baptism, no needed qualifying,

belief balances on tense tightrope.


tharms is a word for twisted gut. I use this as an ugly metaphor for that stillborn umbilical cord.


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