The unborn embryos
preserved in clear
formaldyhyde
do not have a name.
How do they manage
to still turn
in a kind of dance.  
They waver
with all their pining,
unvanquished pang
still held in tact.
No singing here
but rather, the thud
and slow scraping
of their frozen fingers
on the side of a glass jar.
And if some music
could be born from
their open mouths,
would they say,
live for me?   Live
in spite of me,
but live.