BABY FACE

The intrauterine time just matches now
The breathing months. The baby’s slumbering face,
Unopened flower, innocent foretaste
Of heaven, petal-smooth, damask brow,

A bubble of balm, a Buddha mask of contentment.
But Eden fades and fails as wetness or thirst
Galvanizes a visceral outburst,
And the placid facade contorts in howling torment

Scarred by the marks of agony. Briefly–until
The daddy’s caring, cuddling, caressing slows
The throbbing sobs to quiet tremolos.
Then grandpa takes his turn. The baby stills.

Next day the consolers, embracing heart to heart,
Have plenty of lines to fill with tears of pasting.

(47 August 27, 1992)

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