She wakes
eyes squinted
six thirty am
after cries
softly at first
whispers I hear
from where
we sleep
escalating
if I wait
too long
occasionally
to piercing screams
near terror
it seems
but it is only
hunger –
one might think
starvation
if not for knowing
this occurs
every two or three hours
twenty four hours a day.
Her infant eyes
Are now open
blinking rapidly
as the tiny hands
rub her petite chocolate face
palms out
forehands rubbing
covering long lashes
as she blinks against
the light
with those almond dark eyes
sparkling black orbs
poured in pure white porcelain
looking out
on this mysterious grand world.
Six fifteen am
crying out again
as I stand over her bed
comforting her
my hand covering her chest
rocking gently
she is
whimpering out loud
or smiling
sometimes laughing.
She is
lifted up
in a bundle
out of her borrowed crib
then laid down again
for clean clothes
and a dry diaper.
Moments later,
I crack the blinds
allowing a blue morning light
to illuminate her explorations.
Feet kicking
curling up
grinning or crying
alternatively
she is navigating her own
hands –
finger by finger
feet – toe by toe,
latching onto anything
close by.
Snaps are undone
and resnapped again
then –
gas drops inserted
into her bottle
formula measured,
vitamins added,
and iron,
Aveeno and hydrocortesone 1%
rubbed and applied,
for one week only -
or nose drops
if necessary
but always a mirror –
reflecting
what we want to see
revealing what
we want her to be
cooing or crying
pacifiers lying close by
singing
if required
for calming the wild animal
in the babies’ body.
Most any lullaby
or melody will do,
but particularly
she quiets at
Cat Stevens - “Harold and Maude” soundtrack
“If you wanna be you be you,
if you wanna be me be me,
cause there’s a million things to be…
..and ya know there are…”
I sing,
I change her,
we chat
she and I
we understand one another
for those few moments
in looks – without words
but it is
a communication
unknown to those
without children perhaps,
a deep resonant
understanding –
of safety and belonging.
I am slow sometimes
waking from a deep sleep
she is hungry
she cries out – even
screams
louder still
“I will never eat again”
I call it – and I
move more quickly
or put a pacifier
in her mouth to soothe her
then –
instantaneous quiet arrives
gratification sets in
and the cooing begins.
The diet of infants
is perfect at four months
the slow change from formula
or breast to soft foods
and by four and a half months
ever more changes.
At eight am it’s peas
and apples and pears
in tiny glass ware jars
the small bottle warmer
the alarm clock charmer
and the plastic baby spoon
become your new best friends
and the dishwasher
is indispensable – it seems
yet -
I wonder about the families
the children in Mumbai slums
at the edge of the airport
existing on crumbs.
How do they survive -
when the fierce crying from hunger
comes so often -
I wonder about the muck
how do so many stay alive
the pluck – the grist
to thrive on nothing.
At five months
she not only finds her hands,
but every finger,
she discovers the ability
to hold a pacifier
I see the amazement on her face
she explores every side –
gives complete attention
then throws it away
eyes light up in a way
making every thing new
in this seemingly
advanced civilization.
Our nights are ever inexplicable
our sleep still unattainable
yet the crying and laughter
are all one and the same
at times – a celebration
for me and my love
as when a prerecorded lullaby
comes on without warning
at five in the morning.
Bleary eyed
without sleep –
I push buttons
to stop it
and as monitor skips
one lullaby to the next –
we burst out laughing.
in a moment of joy
as our exhaustion is shared
there with the tinny sounds
of an unwanted lullaby.
Copyright © 2012. Doug Claybourne .All Rights Reserved.
