C L  B l e d s o e  

Little

Not even the rain has such small hands

           e.e.cummings

Thin skin revealing the bluest

veins, cries that pass from desperate

to forced; little thing, you, growing, remind me 

so much of my mother, dying. The way 

you chatter as if your tongue will stumble

into words if only you keep it active. 

The way you flail weak limbs

and then latch on to my shirt, my arm,

my hand, and then grow still. We found

her wedding dress the day of her funeral 

and were shocked at how tiny the waist;

you, likewise, were so small, each time

you cried to be burped, changed, fed, 

we thought: life is so much larger 

than this. How will you ever grow?

 

CL Bledsoe is the author of the young adult novel Sunlight, three poetry collections, and a short story collection. A poetry chapbook, Goodbye to Noise, is available online from Right Hand Pointing.  He blogs at Murder Your Darlings.