WORDS IN MOTION.

A MOTHER AND HER BABY.

She set the words in
Motion syllable
After syllable
Knitted into a

Prayer, pushed it out, not
Sure if anyone was
There. Father had said
There was, although clothed

In mystery with
Strings attached. She puts
Hands together, her
Warm fingers and palms

Touching. Lips mouthing
The words. Mother spoke
Less often so, but
Trusting to fate and

Maybe secretly
Hoping in some kind
Of miracle if
Not too late. She feels

The fingertips push
And remembers as
A child forming a
Church with fingers in

An arch and steeple.
Look inside Father’d
Say, see the people.
Baby was dead she

Knew, no sound, no cry
Just the rushing of
Doctors and nurses
To and fro and a

Show of white and red.
Baby was silent
Now, baby was dead.
Although no one had

Said, just those hush hush
Voices, that hand on
Brow, whispered words that
Took flight like dark birds.