By Tovaa Steckull 
The most still birth
is no birth
but pain and anguish
sleepless nights
and empty arms.

Breasts shedding white milky tears
of loneliness and despair
are the body’s language
of a too soon empty womb
no infant’s hungry mouth
and a need to nurture
what is no more
but souvenir
of bloodied sheets
marking dreadful loss.

The saddest youth
is one not known at all
but used by others
to live their own
itself a miscarriage of the worst kind.

Twin robberies
of life and love
that end with silence
empty arms
and pain encased in a leaden box
infrequently dusted
for fear of awakening
yesterday’s feelings
still warm to the touch.