Little Human Lives

Twenty three weeks is teetering life.
It is a blur of one who may yet become
but one who is not grown,
and is now balanced
between pulse
and earth.

Thick air will poke its way through sleepy lungs;
resistant to the world.
Tissue-paper membranes hold this
tender, tiny life,
scratched by soft blankets;
skin cellophane
thin.

For twenty three weekers, we cloak truths
for fear of the ache
it may inflict upon us.
For fear of saving a life filled with
drugs, gloves, and
plastic noises.

They are but bruised and breaking embers
who may melt back into the soil
or who may grow
and laugh
and live
with the rest of us.

Twenty three weeks is teetering life
where black and white tangles
to a muddy mix of
life and
love and
blood.