The Dying Baby Takes the Ballet Studio

each morning we ask
if anything is new.
23 weeks, too soon.
They can do so much
more now a young
cardiologist says.
But that's so small.
No one knows his
belly will darken, an
uncle will make the
coffin, shoe box
sized, covered with
fake jewels. Is he
eating, can he breathe
on his own? The dying
baby might as well
be part of the air, his
presence when we do a
dance almost a fragrance.
The mother, what
will she do? There was
no warning. He has
a name, that's all he
has

Dead Bird in the Road

small as a stone, a
car maybe. Probably
not a hawk or crow.
No torn up feathers.
Brown as the road.
Camouflaged in dust
and last year's leaves.
Maybe from the tree
so thick with green
you can't tell there
are birds when you
pass by, only
hear singing

— Lyn Lifshin