At eight pounds you burst out
with a trumpet mouth,
rash splashed
across your face, knuckled fists
like walnuts, banging on a door.
Rich yeasts in your neck,
thrush fuzz on your tongue,
fontanel a pulse of American blood.
Your pink face is already furious,
a drill bit bearing down
on the light and the sound.
You are a limb-driven maniac.
They put you in my arms.
I sing a little church song I’d like to pass along.
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