I have been working on this poem for a few months. It’s probably not finished. It takes a lot to say that a poem is done, and walk away from it.

This poem is about Boodi, my son.

The way that the media and commenters have framed the murders of Elisa and Martin Lutz made me want to finish it, and to put it out there, to shift the narrative in my own tiny way, to say that my child is not a burden,despite what so many commenters on articles in the last few days would have him to be, to say that I have it from a source that I trust that the mother of Elisa and Martin didn’t see them as burdens, either, that they were so much more than their disability.

Rest in peace, beloved babies, and your Mama too.


was it womb


            that made you mysterious?


did creamy white vernix fix for you the




by which you would measure your days


                                in the light?


            invisible now, transparent shield,


like the quiet shift


            of amniotic ocean



       that surrounded you,


when we were separated


  by my Mother-skin,








were there seashells there


                 in that world of faraway




         in the flex


of umbilical cord, which


     connected us,


as I made you


      and you made me,


                               more mother


by every day that you grew,




as far as these things


are supposed to go,


                       but right way up,


(was it my heart, that shell


               that you rested your tiny ear against?)


     your brain,


                   sending out


                  unfurling shoots


of connections,


planting the seeds


of the later that would be you,


                                         listened, heard


         the unsteady murmur-beat of


                the blood in my heart


                                                    and made a code, with eyes




you can’t be lost


when you’ve never been found,


when you haven’t yet learned how to kiss


with your mouth closed.