after the operation they wagged their heads at us,
as the mindless require,
through the delirium of doorways,
past polished machines throbbing
with their cycles of liquids and air
here is Phillip, he is here,
has escaped the plastic shell of incubation
and at last found mama·s breast;
delicate sparrow wing hands
into weak purple fists.
we choke on the mechanisms
forced into our throats,
give the numb chrome touch of death
to the dead, now dead.
we clutch our arms,
drift into the fluid night.
©John Greenleaf-Maple 1978