Absent

Suppose an organ gets lost
inside the body,
doesn't settle in its assigned
cubicle of flesh.
Little fat baby,

                            little Bubba,
suppose it had been your heart,
the skinned torso of a small pigeon
wandering the dark pits.
Ventricles running dry,
papery then,
like the scales of a stranded fish.

Instead it was something less vital.
Can we say that you were lucky?

A lumpish seed that didn't descend
to its designated fold of warmth,
somehow steered away
from its crib. Lost for so long
that it became necessary
to search for the poor thing.

The tiny knife went first
parting flesh to reveal
a burrow-system of meadow mice,
little bodies pumping and throbbing.
With gloved hands they woke them all,
but none had seen the missing grape.

They went searching and found nothing.
Only blackness in the child's bassinet.

Copyright © 2007 Melinda Wilson All rights reserved
from Diner
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission