We buried your miscarriage in the tar sands, with these holy camouflaged hands.
When we witnessed your stillbirth a hundred miles away the instant that you died.
Scratching your neck with magnet fingernails cannot wipe the memory from your senate eyes .
Don't abort the orphan, don't abort the orphan, he deserves to be forgotten, he deserves to earn his oxygen.
There's a heartbeat in the background of this building, billowing, borrowing, spoken far-away on a sky partially-bleeding.
Broken faucets called you haunted from the phone, don't you know?
Old men in coal black suits asking you, 'What are you doing for a living? Where are you living?'