By CL Bledsoe
Not even the rain has such small hands
-e.e.cummings
Thin skin revealing the bluest
veins, cries that pass from desperate
to forced; little thing, you, growing, remind me
so much of my mother, dying. The way
you chatter as if your tongue will stumble
into words if only you keep it active.
The way you flail weak limbs
and then latch on to my shirt, my arm,
my hand, and then grow still. We found
her wedding dress the day of her funeral
and were shocked at how tiny the waist;
you, likewise, were so small, each time
you cried to be burped, changed, fed,
I thought: life is so much bigger
than this. How will you ever grow?
