Dead Children Poem by Patti Masterman

When the body grows up,
the children inside it die;
where are they now,
if no longer present?

Every night I bury those imps-
but every night, they re-animate again.
Dead children will not stay buried.

The past lives forever
on some forgotten thoroughfare,
but we grown-ups
always have more forgetting to do.

It is our daily task,
when the stiffened cardboard cut-outs
fall over again, at morning.

The brain is a restless cemetery.