The firstborn   was handed back to them
in a small cask       not much bigger than
a shoebox    only wooden    no more about it
they took it home by pony and trap
wasn’t the river in flood at the gate?
they had to climb down    and wade through it
and she went alone with him
to the corner of a field    below the house
a dry shaded place    where he opened a grave
for it was April then       and the pinkish
blossoms of whitethorn were emerging
and they lifted it low together
onto sods of damp earth
placed holy water with it
and everything she could to lay
a holy innocent to rest
as far as giving the boy    a name
it was Martin    the brother in Chicago
and when it came to saying good-bye
he had to draw her away          she was so
lonely    that shook him    while
he covered it with clay    for up to then
never a care    but a demon for style
high heels    you’ve never seen the like
though she gave birth again
she was often seen    alone    in that field