|© Beth Roberts|
Only one who knows the body with skill and invention
counsel, wheedle, blood, loosening arms, might
be more aware of the harm to do children.
Before you were the usual misgivings, missing parts born
or the whole child done, daily informant on the radio
to make a season's best gone bad,
but look . . . now you're here with a mouthful and a look, easy
to make happy, or already happy and so to make last.
I put your foot to my lips and make you laugh, place
a hand across your chest, I try to keep you in this place.
There is a mind in the gap at the small of my back: no art
and no artillery, no heart will keep you so.