Aftern Newtown
Think of the baby
C-curved
around your body
in the dark
bedroom.
His breath.
His hair.
Don’t think
of the other rooms—
clementines
rotting on the sill,
the slowly dying
marigolds.
Don’t think
of the boy,
once a baby,
walking into a room
full of children.
See only this:
the baby’s hands
crisscrossed
in front of his eyes,
bones hollow
as a bird’s,
little fists jerking
on instinct.
Love him.
It’s dangerous
to be a baby, a child
in this world.
Glory
to the goddamn
peach fuzz on his head.
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