We Shall Name The Baby Blue

Dead blue baby we shall call you sweet
and the cord shall be your string.

This is how my sister buries her son
in a casket no bigger then a tool box.
Here are the things we won’t forgive:

everything is dust and shall return.

I tell my daughter
there are eggs inside her no bigger then a pin.
Numerous like stars, they cannot be named
there is no pleasure.

The baby is blue, the midwife brings my sister a sweater.
He is a print in my hand and I share him with paper.

Everything is dust
nothing is returned
and when the boy turns in my sister's belly
we name him.

My daughter believes there are enough words—
this one could be cup, she says another bowl.

We could go on like this forever.