dying the little one lay –
a thin cry –
minutes like millions of detestable flies –
burning anxiety hammers against small temples –
cynically slow you went
through the night –
you painted fear-crosses –,
hour after hour –
small eyes – small fingers
surrendered bit by bit
to the flies –
you crocheted black ribbons
and tied them slowly
around every little joy –
torn pieces of screams you swiped out
with a tired expression –
dying lay the little one
still in the morning –
then your patience wore out –,
shyly smiling you said: come –
and together you went out
on a new meadow –
under the grass
the earth writhed in big-bellied laughter –
and the sun came
like a glossy-eyed cow
and licked the back of the little one’s neck –