the baby, name lost. 1906. Spring born,
almond and blackthorn in bloom. Meadowsweet,
chickweed, petals of milk on her lips.

Spider-silk saliva from mouth to crab apple fists,
on Mother’s lap, the train from Kiev to Minsk
after the last harvest in Tiegenort.

Teething, feverish, pinpricked cheeks, Mother sings
Kniereiter to distract—bouncing, bouncing baby.
Should you fall in the ditch, ravens will feast,
ravens will feast.

Bitter pip of sick picked up in Riga’s quarantine. Soon
they will slip her little body into the Baltic, wrapped
in blue douppioni cut from Mother’s wedding dress,