Like clockwork, I’m stillborn.
It’s uncanny, you know? Words I’ve heard
before are setting my heart right presently
in the only way that’s possible and sure.
With my eyelids closed. In corpse pose
“Can a mother forget the child at her breast?”
–something sweet like baby’s breath
whispers to the veins housed within my
soft sack of skin, I love you.
I sense their faces.
I talk tenderly to the ones who’ve disowned me.
We walk barefoot until somehow we stumble
in the way of sunshine through an open wall.
Fresh faces smelling like apples.
I float into mornings this way. Happiness
evaporating cooly. I rise again, without them.
finely spun material 