4

4

Two hands, two feet –

donated to most at our births, even though we can’t

use them correctly – just thrash about –

four spindly limbs reaching out of the cradle.
 

Some small months and Mom will place me

on my heels. I will lunge at end-tables,

scaring the wits out of big sisters, while dad jiggles with laughs.

Here I am great big universe – with my two feet, two hands.

 
By June, I’ve become the plaything of

8-year-old Jules. She’ll place me

on our rectangle of lawn where I will tear grass

between still-baby fingers.

 
My mother - the rounded squash with lopsided wraps of fabric

squeezing her soft frame –  hunches over

a squirmy larva in another frightened woman’s arms.

My mother will always coo even over the most

 
flimsy dribs that naturally repulse us.

New hands, new feet –

unable to grip furniture,

to steady the hulk against another’s leg.

 
Unable to wave goodbye,

point at a new constellation,

fix a compass to the earth.