You told me the story of the elevator,
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.
