Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Francesca rocked her dead baby
In her arms. She looked at each
Strand of hair, gaped at the closed
Eyes, the eyelids like smooth shells.
She touched the soft button nose,
Sensed the chill, placed a finger on
The white cheek, hoping against all
Hope still. She kissed the forehead,
Felt the coldness, lips on dead flesh,
Thought warmth might undo death’s
Sting, as sun’s kiss warms buds to life
In spring. She walked back and forth
In a room off the hospital ward, her
Feet pacing the green linoleum floor,
Rocking the baby in her tired arms.
Francesca brought her cheek to her
Baby’s cheek, sensed no life, no hope,
Just chill and smoothness of skin; none
There now, no inner babe, empty within.