their feet never touch the ground.

Summersaults round and around

inside your belly.

A second seems like eternity.

You are naive. You think your angel is impetus -

a hell raiser,

a go-getter,

an Olympic champion -

not realizing,

death comes in twirls.

The next day -

at your four month sonogram,

you are told by a shocked nurse,

your angel is dead.

Yet your belly is still round -

still nourishing a dead embryo.

You are told to wait -

to let nature take it's course.

A week goes by.

Your belly is now flat.

Yet your angel has yet to touch ground.

Eight hours later

your child plops into porcelain.

A nurse scoops it up

and places it in a white blanket.

You study your child

as if he were just sleeping,

counting toes and fingers,

realizing his eyes are like yours.

You name him Andrew.