(no subject)
Every kiss reminds you of baby hands. The sprain of being born. At birth, the world overwhelms: too-new. And all those well-meaning mothers with their plates of white cake. They touch your arm-don’t wait too long. A drawer brims with organdy bonnets. A filled-up trousseau. A moment as pure as in wedlock. The rules speed up at twenty-five. You can see the blinding lights of the O-R. Stirrup-legs. The saffron tang of cautery as it blusters your face. The delicate hairs of the ear canal. The wax paper square of a finger nail. Dewy ringlets. Fresh living stunts you. Poles on a quickly shrinking map.