Newborn

Still bloody
Purple and crying
With pudgy fingers
Thinning hair
Our son is
A creased old man
A bawling sage
in woollen blankets

It is my savage superstition to pray
and give thanks

Now that they have
mopped shined you
made of you a serene swaddled infant

You are absolutely still
A mystic with no name
With sleep
You shall grow young
in this house
Strong-lunged
Round as the moon

The 2River View, 3_3 (Spring 1999)