I am the wrap they think
blesses her at birth.
The nurses who deliver
her blue body drop
the limp placenta, slap
her soles pink. Peel away
this lead-gray web veiling
her skull, as they chatter
of luck. Fools. I am no
amulet, no water charm.
I, her cloak of grief, her
drowning gown. I bide,
hung on a bent hook
until I can swaddle
her again in slick
embraces. She thinks to ward
me off with rose cape
and capsule. But I remain,
her second skin, her soul’s
grim slip: when she least
expects me, I nudge
inside her sleeves and feed—
little vampire at the heart—
to plump my slippery
cope. She is mine. And
knows it. Slides, and slides
back, into despair.
Always, I am there.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 9
