When you were born I slept

in your bassinet, wishing

it were empty. All night
I am you and you are gone.

In this dream we have long

shoulders, weak ears and low-
set dancing fingers. I am waiting

to learn how to say Please

may we see the doctor, I’m unsure
of myself. I am unsure of myself

and of the meter as our wrists curl.

By morning I walk the hall
and hear Be gentle. You are gentle

with each turn, just like your father,

learning to wait. You tear open
my mouth and every tooth falls out.

We find the doctor sitting limp

(she developed without speech
or strength). She gestures inward

to exhibit her prognosis, towards

an empty notepad, lagging hands.
There you are. My arms spread

and love swarms the gaps

between your eyes and toes,
inflated palate and edema,

every lack and label

of your little body, the ripple

of bent fingers weaving air.