Someone has to make the tiny caskets
plane oak until the sides are even
paint layers of varnish and polish
the surface until it gleams.

Someone has to comfort the tiny mothers
shrunken in the shadow of their grief
bones hollowed like mourning doves
arms numb in their sudden emptiness.

Someone has to clean the tiny bodies
make neat stitches to seal gaping wounds
seam lips shut to hold back the fear
mask the pain of those last moments
still clinging to each immobile tongue.
–
Gabby Gilliam is a writer, an aspiring teacher, and a mom. She lives in the DC metro area with her husband and son. You can find her online at gabbygilliam.com.