And I die and you die
And a baby lies in a plastic cage with a
hole cut out for his mother's hand. She does not hear him crying, but sits
beside him in a wooden chair, not sleeping, not listening. It is his own hell until the third day, when
he finds the energy to open his eyes and sees the rows of other babies beside
him. All of them are alone, just like
him, and his crying stops and he sleeps
And I die and you die
And the earth spins and some of us have
trouble getting up in the morning. And this mother visits less often because it
is easier to forget and because his skin is so soft, so soft, that if she felt
it she would not be able to stop.
And I die and you die
And the baby beside him, when he was born,
looked at me and asked me with his mind if I loved him and I nodded and wrapped
him tightly in a blanket. And all around
him swirled the voices of his brothers and sisters and his mama moaned with
pain and all I could do was nod as his tiny blue lips searched for his own
fingers. He found them, but not his
breath, not then. Not his voice
And I die and you die
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