Stillborn


When Mother came home from the hospital,
I was instructed
not to ask where you were . . . I
knocked on an invisible door. Your father
was a clock, your mother the long bladed legs
of scissors. When I did ask,
they would let you into the playroom.

A little girl of white mist, almost my age,
your egg-shaped belly reached for me,
wisps of your hair gently moving.

Your mouth covered by a wing. I
would have called for you, "Joanna,
sister flown away, where
can I find you now?"

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