I didn’t know what to call you.

The dull side of a blade,

egg cracked and

fried,

sunny side up.

wasted yolk

in slippery shell.

You were a vapor,

a collection of

cells:

blood before marrow,

Queen Anne’s Lace cut at the stem;

after seed,

before bloom,

pressed in a book.

Given to God,

instead of your mother.

Spare the delivery room.

Spare the earth.

You were enough.