My Dead Babies

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Sitting upon my windowsill,
Stuffed in my cabinets,
Stacked up in the closet.

A few more under the sink,
Some scattered along my bedroom floor,
And one or two on the living room couch.

I don’t leave them in the backyard anymore.
The neighbors complained.

Got too many of them,
And they’re all starting to rot,
Half of them stopped being cute months ago,
Little skulls with patches of old skin just barely hanging on.

Other half are pale,
And cold,
And stiff,
Not good for cuddling.

I’ve thought about just letting the babies grow up,
They last longer that way.

And I miss the sounds they made,
The cooing,
And the laughing,
And how they smiled when you walked into the room.

But I’ve done that before,
It’s not worth the crying,
And the poopy diapers.