Baby Shoes Never Worn Poem by Gabriella Mayer

In color gradients (pink or blue)
balloons are set,
your husband sets the table
for this occasion, for the second time.
You call on the ghost to spiral around the table.
He hands you pomegranate seeds
for a quick snack as you stare at the tiny new shoes
you placed onto the Isolette.

You decide the gray transparent foam behind the glass ceiling
is the newest idea to cry about today.
You decide to cry about the gray foam the next day

next, again
next, again

until you no longer feel the weight of infinity between your thighs.

In front of you are two sonograms:
Someone small about to enter
and someone small you once held as you stared
at his blue lips.

You read Hemingway's poem
and you summon a brand new steel beam to hold up the ceiling. But your
partner murmurs and nurse announces it's time to begin and
you can't help but glance at the pink carnations in the vase,
can't help but think about decomposition
and the desire to grow a new crop.

But you wonder if the ghost will come home one day, if he'll
beam at what you've done for him, the little things,
the only things you can do…
Would you brighten the parklife?