There Was No Sun in the Room

I imagined her
stretched out and weeping
over her womb on a stretcher,
shaking. scared. steadily,
whispering her wants to her wished
as the ambulance whisked
through the dark of morning.

The son had not come yet.

When I arrived
my sister lay, covered in blues,
body bound to the hospital bed,
belly big with life still living.
water, just about to burst,
she beckoned my hand.
I stood beside a gripping moment,
hard to grasp. her

pushing while pulling,
my nephew’s heartbeat
like surround sound
bouncing through all the silence
on our tongues. some bodies, stood
still like statues—hard to feel.
once his heart stopped, it was cold.
and lifeless.

my nephew was born.
after dying. in the maternity ward
at St. John’s hospital. my mother
tucked his itty bitty brown body
tightly into a purple blanket,
placed him gently into my sister’s arms,
and I cried
as if there was no sun in the room.

Copyright © 2024 by Tish Jones. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 13, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets. 

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“This poem is for an ancestor, my nephew, and his mother, my sister. Amiri Baraka (and other outstanding Black writers) often spoke of how important it is for Black poets to document our stories, provide proof of life, and add to the narrative. I wrote this poem to be in that tradition and… to survive.” 
—Tish Jones