The midwife puts a rag in the dead woman's hand,
takes the hairpins out.
She smells apples,
wonders where she keeps them in the house.
Nothing is under the sink
but a broken sack of potatoes
growing eyes in the dark.
She hopes the mother's milk is good a while longer,
and the woman up the road is still nursing.
But she remembers the neighbor
and the dead woman never got along.
A limb breaks,
She knows it's not the wind.
Somebody needs to set out some poison.
She looks to see if the woman wrote down any names,
finds a white shirt to wrap the baby in in.
It's beautiful she thinks
like snow nobody has walked on.
- C.D. Wright (1949)
