the baby in your arms blue,

newly dead in the Boston Hospital.

You, riding up to greet the mother

that wants to hold the baby

before good-bye.

You, blow-drying it to give it warmth

to feel more real, alive in the mother’s arms.

You, the social worker, with the strength of

a mother, separated wife,

and cancer survivor.

You, blow-drying your own new hair,

giving it warmth

before you greet the elementary school students,

the traumatized ones

that survived the shootings, the ones

you will help today.