A dart to the heart
Is learning that our newborn will die without surgery on her
heart, the size of a walnut
NOW
And might die anyway
After the surgery that opens up her chest and her heart to
the dry air
She stretches out her fingers and folds them around our fingers
falls asleep under the warming light,
She stretches out her fingers and folds them around our fingers
falls asleep under the warming light,
Festooned not with ribbons and lovely dresses, but with
Wires and tubings erect from her belly button.
She has one hand huge with a dressing over an iv into an
invisible vein
She moves, and suckles briefly on the green pacifier, and
smiles.
They told us that babies don’t smile,
But she did, we saw it and photographed it, shared it
Instead of coming home pictures
And every time we speak to her, her lips curve into
something sweet
She smiles under the warm yellow light,
She smiles under the warm yellow light,
We touch her gently, unable to pick her up, close to our
hearts
Wires and tubings trailing.
