by Kristine M. Neiman
No sound, people moving around me
someone stroking my head and giving me reassurance
by holding my hand, very tight.
I feel the pressure of the knife,
and I remember how it felt when they took you out.
I heard them counting, trying to bring you back.
"Is he dead?"
Laying on a table, all alone, wrapped in baby clothes.
Your beautiful hair, your smell, your eyes are closed.
I want nothing more in this world,
than to hear you cry, scream, breathe,
anything...but be so still.