I imagine you in the morning, heavy
with sleep and with child. Your hands
are a stranger's but I know them,
they are found in different angles
than eight months ago, they are
displaced by growth.
It is easy to speak of stretching
stomachs and the glow of health. Less easy
to explain the hunger for an empty belly
and full arms, the miracle of a body
that knows when to cling
and when to let go.
Just that: your body knows but you
do not. These are the secret plans
of blood and heartbeat. They are
beautiful and, a little, terrifying.
But the small heart in you has
already known music, and poetry,
and love, and love, and love. This is
the most important thing.