Dear Mallory, it's
me again.
You are looking
well, as we expected.
You do not seem to show
the shape of your
pregnant belly-
or the imprint of your
sick and terrified baby's
hand.

You hid under the desk
when I came in to meet
your brother.
His hair was laquered-
vaneer and all that type.
I wrote a letter on your head,
although you never knew it.
That was the only time
I felt safe with your fever.