there is no arguing with you

i'd like to speak to my dead baby, please.
the one without a casket, birthed
without my witness.

they said ' don't look '
and i'm glad i did not -
i was afraid of my own child.

the tubes where there would be ears
or - the ears where there would be
tubes -

i don't know.
i've never seen a dead 13 week old baby.
i never saw mine.

i don't know if that was a penis
curled tight like a dirt covered frond,
or a vagina

in it's tepid pinkish bud.
the beginnings of things are hard.
this is the way

of everything but love,
which must be birthed easily,
bearing so many hardships after all.

' what does it look like? '
i cried out. no one answered me,
not even my sweetest husband.

' don't look, don't look '
i sobbed.
the doctor sheepish, pale

watching over my shoulder
as he carried our baby away.
never answered -

and i never expected him to.
like God
all knowing,

and perfectly silent-
carrying all those dead babies
up to wherever dead babies go.

i'd like to speak to mine-
but there is no arranging
this kind of meeting.

who to ask?
the priest doesn't believe in me.
the devil doesn't care.

i speak into my husband's mouth
where the words gurgle miserably.
this December

baby was due
to be born.
due

baby was due.
and i fall short,
having no life to offer

this baby of mine
who i never saw,
never heard,

never felt.
only the grinding yawn of contraction,
the purplish torrents of blood

announced this child's existence,
marked the place of birth.
gone as if waiting to be placed

in my arms the day i die.