Some were stillborn. For them, a moment of silence.

Others died so soon after birth
(Siamese triplets, microcephalic odds
Without ends, the offspring and outfall
Of incompatible species) their freakishness
Is half-concealed now by their innocence.

Some died early, victims of malnutrition,
Overexposure, and gross neglect. A motherless few
Were smothered by strangers.

And two consisted wholly of parts from the graves
Of the recently dead. When brought dimly to life
By heat lightning and static electricity,
They merely jerked and shuttered a moment,
Then fell off the gurney.

Of those who lived to hear their voices break,
Some throttled themselves and died in fits of outrage,
And some drowned in a rapture of the depths
At the shallow end of the pool of Narcissus.

Several in mid-career escaped hanging
By the skin of their wits and died later
Of a lingering green-sickness. Some breathed their last
Blindfolded, up against the wall, half-shot at dawn.

Of the rest, the less said, the better,
Since they had almost nothing to say themselves.

My once dearly beloved, you are gathered together here
In the sight of your maker, under the covers
Of a common grave, in rows, now left to your own devices,
With the sure uncertain hope you may go back
To the loam of the mother of language
To be rearranged for the seeds of a better father.