By CL Bledsoe
They cut you out of your mother, blue
and silent and so, so breakable, handed
you off, and shoved us into a room full
of curtains and quiet murmurs. Smaller
than a football, you lay in my palm
while I wondered what I’d do when you woke
and started to cry. Everyone behind
the curtains would know I had no idea
how to fix this. Tiny, bundled girl,
you opened your eyes, fixed them on me
like a duckling imprinting on its mama.
The room was empty save for you and me.