I scour an undated year
from my scrapbook of poetry
evidence of successful births
stillborns and those that lived
just a short time
and find two poems to resurrect
prop them up and inject
with enough life-giving words
so they can walk and escort them
to the haven of surviving siblings
poets can do that you know
raise the dead
pull rabbits out of hats
make the blind see
but they’re best at delivering
fireside company
on a chilly night
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