the only thing that's breathing here

is the refrigerator,

clicking on and off, humming happily,

as it cools everything inside.

The bed is unmade, the bloody sheets

strewn in a tangled lump.

The vacant cradle by the window,

the rocking chair left lopsided

with one leg in the air,

a hand to protest the flight

at which its occupant left.

Wait.

It's too late.

The baby clothes unworn

folded neatly on the dresser,

two sets of blue and pink.

If the refrigerator could see,

it would of such sorrow speak,

but as it is the refrigerator is the only thing

that breathes, 

as it goes about its task

cooling milk bottles

that are empty.

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