she wonders if anyone can smell the lost baby
little blood under her fingernails,
where she, alone, drug the brat out by
the sides of its body
pulling on its form
& lying him
dead in front of her.
she cleaned up well enuff
spat into various cloths
wiping away traces of the too-soon son

also knowing he wld be looking for them; she and this dead boy
so, she buried the rest of the booty inside
the child's throat


patted the earth and shook
leaves to and fro
as an earnest marker

now, she wonders if they can smell
the lost baby
as she glazes over children huddled in a corner
throwing rocks btwn each other
excited to experience each roar of the train
every turn is a new giggle
every choo a reason for imitation

the hanging rouge in the air
too much she thought; too much
near her
she recognizes the creak of an old book's pages being turned
the pissy moldy smell of pages unopened long
deliberately,
she fits herself into her corner
and attempts to remove the blood, left over, from her nails