the healing muse

Sly Lullaby: SIDS

B.A. St. Andrews

We believed in our Trinity:
Mother, Father, and me,
love stable as a triangle.  

We left our Snuggery
safe as any Holy Family.
But we learned nothing

could keep disaster from
our nursery.   No charm, no
mystic talisman enfolded

me, shrouded me in light
to stop death at my
threshold.   Death spoke

a single word, crushing
the cradle of hope.  
The jackal stalked

our sanctuary so filled
with promise, so alive
with prayer.   Stealthy

death climbed the stairs
and found my pampered room,
painted and festooned

with parrots and blue moons.  
Death slid below the water
stretching wide its

crocodile smile.   I did
not cry out, feeling neither
panic nor pain.   Just a slight

tightening.   Death spoke
my secret name.   I could not
stay with them.   Now

nothing in realms of
medicine, where those two
remain, explains how

my breath was caught
inside those jaws and I
cannot console the two

who spread wide wings
above me, vowing to protect
my rabbit heart so fiercely

quieted.   They saw my
future as a lemon drop:
sweet and warm and tart.  

How could they foresee
crushed velvet, purple
crepe, a miniature autopsy.

I hear their bitter cry
as science probes
its anguished why.

 

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