After Stephanie Kirby
The dead baby stepped off the train,
Found no one waiting, no one holding a
Sign printed with a name to be recognized
But not remembered. Somewhere an
Irregular machine beeped. The dead baby
Saw our broken smiles split as we tried
Not to be alone with each other. You, me,
And the dead baby. Overhead lights hummed.
Announcements echoed down never-ending
Halls. As last life’s memories faded in a room
That smelled too clean, the dead baby
Stepped back onto the train, leaned their face
Against the glass of our lives, and stared
Themselves into all our family portraits,
A masterpiece performed in invisible ink.
— TIM MODER
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