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Cover – Baby Buggy, Vintage by Melanie Faith
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newfoundling
You are yet in the bread cave, the woman cage whose jaws will unhinge for passage— what should I say, supple firecracker, animate sapling, about this world-place? Today there’s intermittent
thunderboomers. Driving gales. The kind that sideways blind, dampens hems and soddens coat-sleeves. This, too, happens: we must meet and heft discomfort
deepening in the marrow. Seldom, though, does it last longer than a shiver and a cast off, just as your mother knits and purls, preparing midst sickness.
born
There are many ways to be born into this life. Wriggle worms form new skins, shed unnecessary ones. Water and wine and from the hand of God to the hand of God returned. Song is another that makes the heart better. There is the body finding a body. There is a body’s own body thinning or thickening. There is befriending. Puppies or kittens or canaries or fish - there is animal affection, given then given back. There are travels in big planes, there are imaginative leaps. Thirty-five years, all of these ways - only one you-gift.
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better self
In the dream my baby was born a week after you came into this world.
They laid her supple form on my chest. I need to have a book, I told everyone within earshot, I named her to name her
Sophia Veronica. Sophia because I like the sharp s with the soft f, the spirited old world charm whose meaning is wisdom. Veronica,
the protagonist in a nineties sitcom I flicked through the night before. From the labor bed, despite the tearing of my flesh, as the horror stories I’ve heard about birth, I clambered
down stairs immediately after delivery to fetch the naming book myself. Surely, this says something more
about your auntie than I’ll admit — when awake. I was sorry to awaken. To find - but not for myself Sophia Veronica wasn’t my body’s
but another, more familiar kind of my creation. I was sorry Dear Peanut, Sister’s Little Sprout, that I have no cousin to offer you
- but what I have to offer you a collection of my better self in alphabet.
about this world
What to say about this world? That there will be years you’ll yearn for passage from here. Others, you’ll mourn the inevitable leaving.
only those you hold closest — The irony can push away until it breaks the bone in cellular despair. If you hold no one close, you break anyway.
Satisfaction is limited here: when it’s 90 degrees and clear, people grouse for snowflakes fall. When it’s deep below freezing they bemoan for sun they loathed.
No one makes it through this world unscarred.
Physically or in the heart’s secret compartments, wounds accumulate. Yet who can explain it? On a road to nowhere, -- out of nowhere
wonder
flares like a strand of Christmas bulbs from night’s velvet canvas, and you drive past, head swiveling
marveling
for this life, it’s worth every kind of moment.
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Melanie Faith © 2011
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