PUSH OUT IN what
direction comes
by force in you.
You're a dream of the angels wrapped there in your frog shirt. Lips pursed tight. Pink skin. Earth-bound now, the budding warmth in you spreads.
Rain's down light.
Eggs in a bag for the ground.
Above, below and in between.
Our days remain to be seen.
What we are to each other is locked into language—passage, step after step. Words make each day new. Your easy smile goes through me, here in our provincial actualism. Frogs. Octopus. Strong arms. We go down again. Come back up. Your brother plays with a wooden train. Others are in conversation, rain falling against the windows. Now in your mother's lap, you hold her nipple in your mouth. This is the image of Easter to place against the others of war and dispassionate illusion. Not even the wicked cross holds power over this. Milk on your face, you pop off a moment, release gas, eyes closed, and latch on again in pursuit of warm fluid.