Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Eight Haiku


dark shadows reveal
brothers entwined in my womb
one heart between them

pincers and lasers punch through
they probe at my boys

I puff with fluid
morphine -induced dreams ensue
babies clutch for life

they call him twin b
curled up like a baby bird
drowning inside me

no need for pushing
tiny beings slide to light
the nurses are hushed

eyelids fluttering
a body thin as paper
he has toothpick toes

whisked from my embrace
now he lives inside a box
I tap on the glass

without a heartbeat
twin b stays in his pink tub
I should have held him

Danielle Abramsohn writes middle-grade fantasy, flash fiction, and dark poetry. Her work has been featured in Literary Mama, Allegory Magazine, Errant Parent, The Snow Reporter, Crossed Out Magazine, Twenty 20 Journal, Nanoism, Trenchfoot Gazette, and The Journal for Compressed Creative Arts. She holds a bachelor’s degree in theater arts from Brandeis University, and her greatest creation is a pack of four monstrous minions who call her mom. Find her online at

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Tremendously powerful.
This is beautiful Danielle. I can relate to so much of it.
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