Day 168

A branch of the tree outside my window
blown down by the wind.  New growth on it
green-golden, no chance for these leaves
to uncurl, extend.  A woman weeps outside her tent:
I have nothing to feed my baby.  He was born
three days ago, my breasts have not filled.
All day he cries because he is starving.
She has been living on weeds, birdseed.  I sit
at my desk, watching a wind tear through the garden.
Between my firstborn and my second I carried a child
seventeen weeks, felt her move within me, then bled and bled
one night, blood soaking the sheets.
It was not the child I bled, but what fed her. Held
her. The ultrasound
showed her unmoving in my womb.  Not viable
was what they told me, which meant she was dead.  Starved.
The branch lies under the tree. Rain. Ants beginning to swarm there.
Life feeding on death. This woman
is holding her infant: his wide eyes, thin legs.
His crying is so faint, it is almost silent.  If
she had milk for him he might open like a leaf.