The body unseen for months after:
small, nameless, unborn, in the white light glistening
in what was your amniotic embrace. How,
they ask: a dans macabre to the heart beating
a death march–– ta-doom ta-doom ta-doom
then the fatal twirl, the descent of the umbilical
noose, the delivery from life. The stethoscope
fished for sound, hearing nothing but ocean.
Cartoon sailboats unmoored on the wall, round sheep
grazing in cotton, baby blue whales in a circle, weightless
in the sun. A room was waiting––only for your body
to betray you. For the generosity of water to turn,
tide over, and drown you. Your arms cradle
the urn, the weight of oceans. The photograph
untouched for months, his face a mystery
you could not bear to look at. The labor
of living through this and after, the cord
of grief twirling around the heart as you herd
the sheep and the whales back into their box.