Stillborn

My body moved on screen,
his lay in stillness
in his maternal room
in needless wait, my almost child,
near as he was in utero, a flotsam that will go
to waste with hopes and dreams,
the frailly imperfection of a life run out,
still toes and fingernails in strange perfection,
eyes, two filigree wings rest on alabaster.
his minute hands once felt, his feet, his brain
a quiver and a burst like any bud
until a turn of frost, that piled my pain
snow high.