to think about the kitchen,
the pantry, and all its bottles
rattling their insides.
baby wants to know how
she came awake,
pushed from the warm
sleep of an eternal love.
she grew into her water
and there she flailed,
head heaved above the line,
afraid to drown.
baby's sore neck clenched
from swimming, the water
coloring her chlorine lips,
sogging limbs confused,
trying to figure out
how to change properly
an inhale for an exhale
without choking in air.
baby rattles her head
sometimes, to hear
the world is going
blindly bumbles
with the sounds preceding
the cries: that of a creaking bed,
oddly paced footsteps during the day,
and at night again, the death of a lightbulb.
baby would like to know
how many books
how many lovers
how many bottles
in a happy year,
if, holding all things
constant, the people never change,
and the questions laid to rest,
to reach and
cradle steady
your self, then
someone else's.
baby sees the other lost
bodies trying in the winter,
to find their own
warmer waters
but she knows what it is
is hot ginger soup from a bowl,
melting down the lonely tongue,
sweating it mutely out in bed.
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