Below the hospital bed
there was a hot circle of blood.
A forehead on her forehead
a palm on her palm
the Polish song on the radio next to
forgotten babushkas in the room down the hall
with the door notice "Visitors after five"
or staring at the cyrillic letters on
the chocolate boxes the magnolia pots
on the terraces the wet laundry
spread on the strings and sparkling
antennas on high roof tops
could hardly transmit the warmth
she used to feel in her womb.