|
Passing Samantha Around 
"How lovely," we say,
the Cesarean having left no marks,
no squeezed head. This
is the way to live, lifted calmly, if prematurely,
out of the primal soup, raised into
a soft breeze of bodies,
the colorless dreaming of language.
We hand her around,
her feet tiny clappers in the green velvet bell
of her Christmas suit. (Pink rosettes,
lace on the sleeves.)
Her fingernails and toenails scribble
in her sleep. She is weaving a web
between us, we’re all one to her,
a vibration with different depths
and temperatures. One after the other, we
take her up, the little tremble
of her legs—
the original mind polishing the edges
of its latest thought.
"So this is all there is to us,"
we say to ourselves, looking down,
relieved. In spite of
all the trouble we’ve gone to, inventing
ourselves, there is this that we can’t
let go of, can’t exchange. |
