Bevil Townsend
The smallest one around me
concerns her heart only
with my comings and goings—
Appearance in the doorway—safe. Disappearance—death.
My form out of sight—the baby dissolves
into sadness. Reappearance—apparition. We live in these minds
of multiple rooms.
Chorus of blackbirds
on an endless loop—
Voices flung into fistfuls of pulse—
This large organ of skin
keeps us together. I measure the baby before she is gone.