You have one child, you have them all.
You know this because you can’t make it through the evening news. The children’s faces in their respective war zones. Muddy. Tear-splotched.
The mother unable to protect her child. It undoes to see what we do to each other. All babies.
Our mothers’ fingertips still grazing our faces from our foreheads to our mouths gently closing our eyes. To cast a kind of sleep we might use one day against the difficult moment.
In order to come out, the baby opens the mother up from her bottom. Leaving a hole so big the entire world jumps in. It’s quite a burden.
I don’t even want to know what is happening inside me.