Long-lived

tiny head swaddled
in newborn fleece
how could they know
five months and
twenty-four days would
                                            end
like this

Omar
little Omar

in a bed too high
for holding  too high
for cuddling too high
for cooing
                    goodbye

with a thin white
tube feeding air into
lungs too 
                 broken
to breathe

Omar
little Omar

black curls waving
‘gainst polished olive
skin, perfect brows
arching over eyes
forever closed

mother’s?
father’s?

i arrived too
late to know

only just in time
to press a tiptoe
                           kiss
on withered palm

Omar
little Omar

hollow
cold
gone

© s rogers 15 february 2009

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