By: Alex Lobera
He was never born,
yet I held him in my hands.
Too early to be dead,
much too early to be alive.
I can’t remember all his features
yet they are etched by Life’s stern chisel
in the limestone of my mind.
I wish I had a photograph of him.
I am glad there are none to have.
He was warm, just for a moment
from the beating of her heart.
His warmth faded in the instant
of a breath never taken.
No room for breath in lungs that size.
His turn to be named never arrived
so I remember him as ‘L.’
Not even a full name, I know.
His life to me was necessary.
A full name, to me, is not.