Knowing Too Much

Holding her, hand supporting

head, hand cupping bottom,

finding raw human soothing,

new skin waiting to be touched,

scarred, rid of milk-mother smell.

She squirms and cries. At all times,

growing: the gradual ability

to escape pure need. She reaches

for someone else, anyone, her mother

waiting to hold her again, not knowing

every day will be spent watching

the world steal her. There will be a time

when this baby knows too much,

a very short time past origins: a yellow bib

without stains, no words yet to express pain.

by Amy Bohlman