HIS EYES ARE dark, inquisitive. He purses his lips then opens them, driving a finger through his mouth. Little red blotches spot his skin, a pink-red smooth surface on his cheeks and nose. His cord stub dropped of and I buried it in mulch under a rose bush (Felicity). His hair's reddish blond and he moves his head with neck muscles unusually strong for his age—six days. He nurses with the conviction of his cells. Every instinct reaches to survive this vulnerability. Outwardly radiant, he casts a luminous glow through blood vessels close to his skin, and he darkens the private interior corridors of my inanimate stone selves.
Hear water
on the roof.
Watch it leak
under an eave
by a window
in my room.
The babe
and me.
And water
on the roof.