Definitive
You are born on a Thursday
in a city of sirens and smoke
in the season of lost tongues:
your strange downy crown
is shrouded in mystery,
your tiny pink fists
are a revelation.
You, little mammal,
curious fingers unfurling,
crumple up your face,
an unpunctuated yowl
strangling the dark,
as your newly born mother,
freshly stitched and love heavy,
stumbles over your crib
to feed you.
You, suckling bud,
with your milky warm breath
navigating the flesh
of a blue veined breast,
at five days old
refuse to take no
for an answer.
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