There was a certain
Delicacy in
The dead child’s hands. She

Remembers it now,
The way her digit
Moved along the thin

Fingers before the
Blue tinge came. Smooth and
Fragile like fine bone

China and almost
Transparent after
The child’s illness came.

She held her child in
Her lap for fifteen
Minutes after death

Came; no one disturbed;
Gave her any crap
Or words of advice.

Just her and her child;
The warmness going
Like short summer’s end.

The eyelids like white
Shells. She stroked the hands,
Pretending that life

Would return with each
Gentle rub; the eyes
Open with a small

Short flutter. Nothing
Happened, she recalls,
Thinking back, just those

Minutes alone, that
Final hug and gaze
And kiss of the cheeks,

Knowing the flowing
Of time’s smooth sands. There
Was, she recalls, a

Delicacy in
The dead child’s small hands.