I take the trek up just one flight of stairs,
scrub my hands and arms and walk on through
to find you strung with drip lines and thick wires.

Your readings have been good, steady but slow.
You’re doing your bit, under watchful eye
of surrogate Titas—Filipinos

and Irish nurses too. You sleep as I
take you into my arms and whisper how
your mother’s getting strong as well. Your cries

are easily sated, though my own
still bubble upwards, lava like, sudden—
and though you’re barely under seven pounds,

your humble heft helps me to hold it down,
maintain composure, keep the long sob in.
Your short vowels hold back pity’s pale poison,

the sweet song of the smallest violin.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Apr 29, 2012 @ 10:43:38

    This is what I’ve been waiting for; your poetry has been building up to this throughout the series and I think you may have found your perfect muse.


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