Lincoln's Birthday (Revision 4)

[tectak]

For eighteen weeks, I had an unborn son.
At an exam, the doctor scanned
his mother's womb. A veiled foot
stuck out its open door.
Too soon.
Racing my wife through city blocks,
each stop sign seemed to take an hour.
At the Maternal ER, upon a birthing bed,
her water broke.
"Just gently stroke her hair",
the nurses said, "and look away."
The only sense I had was what they lent,
so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we grasped
each other's hands. I tried to keep my eyes
locked on her wet and twisting face,
but to one side, just out of focus, brightly lit,
I saw blood on pinkish skin.
The boy slipped out, too young.
He died.

I've since loved two other sons,
but they’re no cure for this regret:
In that bit of time that Lincoln lived
to feel and maybe hear,
before they cut the cord and all went numb—
I looked away.
I did what I was told. For what?
A "sterile field"?
But if I think the nurses' hands
were there to work and not to love—
God damn!
I should've shoved my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups
where he died
and put a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to touch?
A onesie that will never fit
or prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.

Hi svan
You deserve more than I am prepared to give on this....like billy, I do not need nor care to know if this is a "true" story....but a story it undoubtedly is. I am happy to give it full marks for execution but am concerned, as of now, that the discipline of poetry has been sacrificed on the altar of poignancy. It is not a rare happening but you have made it a clean procedure. I do not like single dashes used where a semicolon could be used; save that one has been used before -close to and in the same sentence.
Best,
tectak