The Melancholy of Birth

In white beds by white walls

a fresh candle flickers

as it rises and as it stalls

and the baby

turned to its side

a heart born on a sleeve

with no place to hide

and if there’s one thing

it doesn’t need

that’s another life to lead

no mother could simply walk by

for this was a child

with eyes of stone worn

against tides of change

and this child born to die

was never to wear away

and the mother transfixed

with white palms to clear glass

the baby lay still

fists clenched around thumbs

at peace, a mask already held well

yet surmass this small flame

that holds the one light

through falls

through triumphs

births, deaths

and endless lifetimes

the baby reaches to a mother

whose fingers already burn

a mind racing, thoughts chafing

for a detachment

she will never feel again

a new life consuming

old phases exhuming

stripping, ripping away every why

grieving it’s leaving

and in it’s blaze

a natal love, like that fire

lapping both their lives away

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