4 a.m., Geneva
by Wren Tuatha
It’s a brute and it’s abrupt.
Concrete step, cold in summer,
4 a.m., Geneva. Sterile gowns are
being unloaded beside me.
They’ve learned to leave
the grieving alone on this shift.
If I don’t take the next breath,
the moment without you
in it won’t have to come.
And I might go back upstairs, slide my
palm under your fingers like a plate, wait
for the quiver that comes, might come
if I don’t breathe.
Why isn’t everyone screaming their
heads off? Why don’t the floors
buckle and the walls bleed?
Simone, Simone. If I mantra your name
you’ll freeze with me. We’ll think of
something. I’ll, the doctors will think of something.
I’ve made it as far as the loading dock.
Simone, if you’re not going to breathe,
I’ll have to. The baby only knows
breathing and screaming.
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