A man catches me staring at the baby draped over his knees like a tiny blanket, sucking at its fist; I imagine asking for a turn at holding this baby– explaining that it's been so long since I had my own, I can no longer take it here for granted, the way they nest against my body under arms that press me to my breast– for you are me when stood like this; on the shoulders of my heart. The baby cries and wants to play with a fork laid on the table; twists against his father's arms and strikes no ground with his kicking and soft-covered feet, by socks adorned by white foxes and green trees shaped like arrows let loose by a mother's womb (much larger than the one I carry) wondering if it will fill again. Sit on my lap, you incorrigible lump; flesh made my sack of potatoes: trouble yourself with the thread on my neck; the ribbon you tied to demand me I find the finest of all my adornments.
