the arrival of breath, the thrumming of hearts
it feels like drowning: watching them.
each breath
(the flutter of hummingbird wings)
barely drawn by small, raw lungs
every fasciculation of tiny new muscle
beneath translucent, paper skin,
like an arrow, tipped with hemlock.
did thetis, looking at her mewling son, feel this way:
small and lost
smothered by
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