No one wants to take the coffin-born
fetus from the barn. From between

the mare’s legs. They lay in tandem,
their deaths a pact between bodies. Here,

where all love ends in a gasp of cold
air. In a house that knows only

this cruel season. While I wait behind
wood stalls and glass windows to see

what becomes of a body. While I mouth
the wrong names for gods. For another stillborn

child, as my body stayed warm. As I was able
to push her towards dying. As I kissed her

slick forehead, blue eyelids. Perhaps, dream
and memory overlap like atmospheres.