You have just learned to walk, and they
will take you from me,
gas you to sleep,
slice and stitch your flesh
with sterile instruments of steel.
I cannot see you, hear your breath,
wake you should you cease to breathe.
I do not trust their tools, the precision
of their passion. I see you naked,
stretched out beneath an ice-blue lamp,
your warmth escaping in waves.
Yesterday we wrestled on the carpet.
I pinned you down, chewed on your belly
while you batted at my head, shrieked
a spark from your heart to mine.
Today, they will take all that
away from us. You will disappear, and I
will stand outside.
Light a cigarette, blow smoke
into the wind. Turn toward the window.
Nothing inside, and no reflection.