Unborn
Swift across the night a little cry, Against the cold white night a stain of red, The moon dips down, The dull winds blow. My unborn son is dead.
Sherwood Anderson
Swift across the night a little cry, Against the cold white night a stain of red, The moon dips down, The dull winds blow. My unborn son is dead.
In five stark lines, a parent registers a terrible, sudden loss. The opening images are cold and violent: a small cry breaks the night, and a stain of red appears against whiteness, suggesting blood and danger.
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