by Eric Rosenbloom
The baby’s suck remakes the severed cord,
The nourishing tube in the belly’s warmth,
So now to the breast’s sustaining flow
He gropes, to seal the bond in his lips.
And drawing crayon to paper
Lines that tie his hand to yours
He scribbles his place,
His world, and you and me.
Himself he makes with pen on paper,
Pure skin of the body against
The marks that grope to know it,
Pages he has wrapped around us.