singing him home

we have him five days
days to pray and hope
and touch his tiny hand
to wait for him to latch on
to give us a sign
he is ready to join us.

his mother never shows her pain
putting on a strong face
eloquent in its stillness
her eyes first hopeful
then knowing

no one wants to be the first to say
not the doctors
not the nurses
not any of us, standing
in the stagnant air of the NICU
so perfectly sterile.

she sings to him
calling him home
even after the EEG shows he
has already left,
escaping the trap of his body
to a place we are not ready to follow.

in the five days we have with him
so long
too short
the only smells he knows
are antiseptic and tears.

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