For Nora Weir
you cradle a limp body, draped in Emerald City’s curtains.
there is no pill for science’s impotence.
was once your son. Meditations on the marvels
of never having been mother.
to wash away criminal. But you’ve seen the revolving door.
You’ve given up on unforgivable.
It’s so tired, said so many times. This is the last time.
You believe it every time, he’s so sincere this time.
nickels and dimes building bricks. This is nature’s cruelest trick,
The firstborn’s stillbirth is buried in the womb.
dancing through underpasses and caskets. No more childhood photographs,
time to dispose of the sonogram.
Dylan Weir is a poet with work in, or forthcoming from, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Literary Orphans, Afterimage: The Journal of Media Arts and Cultural Criticism, Chicago Literati, Red Paint Hill, and others. He works at Young Chicago Authors, is a contributor to Anthropoid, was a semifinalist for the 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic Award, and is completing his M.A. in English at DePaul University.