To a Firstborn Son

Months we all gelled —pills, probes, we pried, we eyed you. Scouring echoes mottled like the Moon, I found your face. Eighteen weeks in, too soon to fly your flawed cocoon, our doctor spied your two feet thrust through. Though your mother tried a banked bed, buoying you, her water broke. The wits I lacked, her nurses lent. “Just stroke her hair, don't look,” they pled—so I complied. But when your cord got clamped, before you ceased your windless breaths, I should've made a stand: amidst those steel stirrups, laying a hand that said, “We love you Lincoln. Go in peace.” What now? Stroke prints inked by l ifeless feet then? Too late. You'll never be that close again.
Source: JAMA - Category: General Medicine Source Type: research