Empty Cradle

I hold him in plastic swaddled tight,

a hospital blanket wrapped too clean,

pink wrists thinner than a prayer,

breath soft enough to dissolve.

My fingers trace the fragile curve—

nothing pulls back, no flood of warmth,

just cold white light flickering off walls,

and my chest locked inside its own room.

They tell me to look, to feel,

but the stillness inside me

is heavier than the softest life.

I set him down,

and the quiet lingers,

a cradle that never rocked.