A Baby Is Not Broken

A baby is not broken

nor is her warm head less than velvet.


Four upturned feet receive the clouds,

choosing the softest cumulus

to envisage as vanilla candy-floss for the taking,

deserved desserts.


A baby does not time her wails

to suit her caregiver,

gauging a grin as a green light

to feel.


She knows herself

like a temple knows its gods,

invisibly and well,

before a classic facade.


Her chipped toy-box takes up room,

where room is a matchbox,


but on she plays,

all lampshades ablaze,

striving to squish her big sausage toe

into a teeny Barbie shoe.


A baby’s hand

cannot understand

the things it loves to feel.


At what point does she let

the clouds pass by her brow?


When does the shoe get too small?




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