The Dead Baby Poem by Leslie Xavier

Two months and a little more,
her pending first birthday.
Day she made the convenient wail,
for a week's loan of love.
The sibling without fail,
accounted for, in a morning sale.

Fortnight, the baby grows,
an ugly bulge not by an inch,
with a monster snarl never heard.
Forgotten debt and thrashed love,
she had mother with a sudden home,
and slimy darts from her father's quiver.

Baby died in a reddened clot,
ten months - misery and lies.