the consequence

The Consequence


The door into the bar was narrow I stood outside
waited for a couple to come out. When they did
the woman carried a dead baby in her arms, said
it was mine, handed it to me; I refused to take it,
my wife’s abortion, more than forty years ago,
had nothing to do with me, we had agreed then
that time wasn’t right for us to have a child.

The waif opened its eyes stretched out tiny arms,
called me papa, I took the child in my arms, and
no longer an “It,” I stroked her golden hair, cried,
said sorry. The couple had gone back into the pub,
layers of years but I recognized her face, for her
it was too late, at sunset I walked into the woods
and buried my baby daughter alone.