Pink as the icing she piped
onto Kate’s cake. We poked it
with a stick as if it were roadkill.
We loved her like an elegy
to who she was without us—
I imagine her in her room,
little radio turned up to hide
the buzzing as bees pour from
her breast: she catches herself
at the bottom of the playground
slide, her breath growing heavy
as a woman in labor just before
one of our voices rushes in.