Kiera Dankesreiter

Little Roman stillborn 

swaddled in blue,  

just as every shift before 

I shall sing to you  

a lullaby,  

soft and sweet 

like your toes beneath my glove 

that have tinged yellow  

with age.  

  

I hold you close to my heart through a 

heavy-plastic gown, 

lay you down on a bed of 

metal, and  

tuck your blanket tighter  

to keep out the chill 

of the archives.  

  

Your eyes closed tight, your lips 

have never parted to cry. 

So delicate you seem under florescent lights,  

fully formed and fully  

loved by a mother who dug you 

a sacred grave, laid you  

with the toys with which  

you were never able to play. 

  

It feels wrong to forget  

this love so soon 

though over 2,000 years have passed 

for you. And so 

as I place you in your sterile crib 

underneath the museum floors and 

close the heavy steel door, 

I continue to hum the tune: 

  

Sleep forevermore, 

little Roman,  

swaddled  

in blue 

Goodnight,  

little Roman,  

Good- 

night 

to  

you.