Touch

We speak of the pain of childbirth, referring,

of course, to the mother, but what is pain

to the mother, the one through whose body

the course unwinds? She understands already

what kind of world she must return to,

how it daily hones its many edges

against human skin, unlike the child whose

untried limbs inch toward it, pressing now

so firmly against her he feels for the first time

the pinch of bone against bone and is seared

by the friction. Isn't he the one

on whom the real burden falls, the one

to whom resilience means nothing yet? His

tender skin like a small measure of cloth

unfolding before the blade under which

he will, for a lifetime, bruise

and heal: Crush of the long descent, grip

of the steadying hands, brush of breath

against cheek, even the constant barrage

of the microscopic, the tiny plink-plink

of the dust motes knocking against him

before custom makes him numb to it. No wonder

the startled mouth cries out,

each pore suddenly hungry

in the withering, nourishing light.