We gave the
infant
our features;
the babe got
a bulb nose
passed on by
its grandfather,
jet-turf of hair
like a wave of
soft sulphur
from the other,
but the eyes,
tungsten grey
set in firm lids,
burnt out like
incandescent
light bulbs
as it left their
filament fingers
gasping mine.
Infants dying is one of the saddest events I could imagine, something we never wish to suffer. I've related an infant to an incandescent light bulb, known for their short, bright lifetimes before dying out.
