I wait for night to take blue in its black sack.
I think of crows in dark barked trees,
of pie, of Poe,
of all the rhymes I will not make
to this baby inside me.
This she. This he.
No bigger than the ladybug
on the sill of the window nailed shut.
Her children on fire at home.
And in that brief pause
between now and then,
I cradle the newborn
for those first few seconds in the world
or never at all.