It came like a whisper
on wings too dirty for angels,
a fly with no gospel—
just bloodlust and fire.
I don’t remember the bite—
only the stories they told me—
the brain-boil, the silence
of a body already leaving,
the baby too lethargic
to be called alive,
and the ice-water baths.
Above the crib, they hovered—
not angels, not flies,
but entities without names,
bodiless heads...
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