The awake baby is light.
I remember mine
writhing        squirming        seeking
to get down        keep those butts up, she commands.
The heft of them from the car
late nights       how easy in the morning
arms stretched    up    from the crib.
They weigh less    and I believe her as if it’s true
scaled, verifiable.         All those autopsies
you’d have to pace yourself
because the morgue was hot
or cold, your bent back strained
into dark cavities.
Small torsos flexed:
preemies don’t get      rigor mortis
muscle mass too small
to stiffen.        You need breaks
to keep records        straight, the hair: texture
pattern on scalp, eye color, ear
anatomy, skin hydration.        You need
time     to summarize charts, call clinicians
gather notes      keep going      engage every muscle
they’ll hold your body up.

                           We weighed each organ, took
tissues for chemistry, blood for
chromosomes, cultures.
Gross malformations named: major and minor
preliminary diagnoses scribbled
as if a baby could be            cubbyholed.
                                                            Lift, she drones.

You and your secretary trade:    your notes
the next chart, which you skim.       The day thins
the morgue’s     clean           clorox and steel light
flood    stainless tables.    Another
naked body, too little food, too much coffee
your hands tremble.       Pull in
with each exhale     belly to spine     she shouts.
Exertion shakes you
bone saw vibrates                      tiny vertebral columns.
All too automatic                sterility cloaks the room
                                                                     like an infection.

By day’s last post I’m exhausted
my children’s dinner
late. It’s            en-block evisceration      the very
word   the world curl   tighter, harder.

Night:   refrigerate        organs
release body to mortuary.
By morning      you’ll be fresh       though
corrosive fixatives will chew
nasal nerves     like leprosy
all meals tasting   tin     even your baby’s
powdery bottom tainted
till midweek.                  Sorrow
seeps through gloves
                               a firm handshake
                                                       grip unyielding

until one Saturday night    around eleven
grandparents          from Wyoming
want to hold their son’s newborn
before embalming, want to touch

baby flesh.             In the morgue
you place
             fresh cotton batting in the skull
clean white pads in chest and abdomen       weeping
blood-soaked originals removed.      No baseball
quick stitch        in black cord tonight.
Fine catgut, hair wet-combed over scalp seams.
A kimono on the body
limp arms pushed through.

               She’s inactive
in her pink blanket
and you think  how to      explain             lightness
to these ranchers      why
                               she’s feathery        as down.