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.