Night thumped the window pane
when he was born
and they put him into my arms,
a bullet into a chamber.
They had dipped him in copper first,
wrapped him in a steel blanket,
then gave him to me and waited.
He looked up at me for the first time,
with a chin like mine,
a dimple on his right cheek,
the light candling his face.
His mass pushed my abdomen inward,
as I let him curl at my belly
for the last time, coiled
into the springs of my arms.
Silence tumbled around me,
perching on empty shelves
in the hospital room,
opening the quiet for us.
No one brought petunias.
The nurse stood in the doorway
checking her wristwatch.
I grasped the cold rail of the bed,
my arms withdrawn like elastic.
They wheeled him away
while I lay on my side,
feeling something like the moon
as it greened the sky.
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