The Unborn

Tentative, mucky,
very wet, very red,
their fingers

grab our dangling
earrings in our
dreams of drowning.

Wailing
like distant wars,
like distant animal

ambulances, they paw
through our sock drawers,
our stacks of photographs.

Sticky, miniature-thumbed,
reeking of rose talc
and rancid butter,

they stain our bed posts,
our sheets, our rearview
mirrors. They murmur,

murmur in the corner,
mouthing button bits,
vanishing in vacuum

hoses, in the light
of bright lamps; we shove
them under flower

pots, under swing sets,
under stacks of news-
papers three-months old,

but they return
to breathe their sharp,
unripe breaths,

clutch their half-made
fists, inside our
closing throats.