The holding of his joyful trembling arms
will clasp no more pink feeble fingers
for even blood betrayed its passing.

The most beautiful cry
vanished without a single tune
unheard by the looking grandparents.

No unfamiliar friends in white
giving genuine smiles
and congratulations to the dad
but the unacceptable shaking of heads
and unwanted tap at their backs.
Suppressed get-the-hell-out-of-heres.

And the mother?
Nothing is more hurting than to never touch
a thing that she sheltered all her life
To holler in pain of delivering would have been divine
to scream, wonderful
to roar, magnificent
to rip bed sheets
and curse the father while letting it out into world
are mostly gratifying
than to remain silent while the cannula
forces its entry to the abandoned world of unborn.

No stupid peek-a-boos will ever echo in this
haunted crib.
No tingling of rattles
will ever irritate ears in smelly midnights
No nursery rhyme will hum.

School bus will never blow its horn
To call upon the school child.

No stars on a hand.

No you’re-the-best-mom-in-the-worlds.