Perfect until he tried to breathe
amniotic fluid, the first time
we saw him was in the Polaroid
from Intensive Care. His skull
like a tremendous opal,
glistened with sweat
on top of his skinny neck.
Silver-blue veins
where he took in liquid food
were covered by a Dixie cup
like a baby party hat,
a bad baby joke, with no evidence
of what those in the delivery room
had witnessed: my brother
sputtering for air, his ten fingers
folded in prayer, his two hands
clasped in the devotion of one fist.

By Rebecca Poole