Babies
Their squirming bodies never stick
to anything, slide and fall,
arms waving like fat antennae,
toes like lined-up pebbles
on a crowded beach.
Pulses beat against their thin skulls,
eyes dart inconclusively,
fat rolls on their necks hide
fluff and week-old milk.
Their cries are like starving cats'
beating against the window,
pulling the skin from our ears,
forcing our eyelids open
with crowbars of desperation.
We want them and wish
we'd never had them,
staring down all the dark years
they will be sutured to us.
