THIS BROKEN HEART
Some grim-lipped nurse opens my blinds. I see late June snow
ripping through perfect petals in the Ladies Auxiliary rose garden.
Wordless, some other nurse cranks up my bed. Soft as pill-bottle cotton,
tufts of snow blunt the rose bush’s fangs.
Some gloved hand yanks my bed curtain across its circular
track. Casketed in white privacy, I gaze at my baby.
Ten piglet toes for counting. Sweet, peach-scented scalp. A perfect heart,
blooming up from the hole in his chest.
June snow freezes into pellets that ping against my window.
Jacob drowses in the bladed cradle of my elbows,
one blue eye opening to the scent of milk.
Just before it dies, Jacob’s heart
surrenders its heat like a lover’s mouth.
It recoils, closing against my lips when I kiss it.
fiction poetry "fact" photography