By Sarah James
Worm-fingered and paper-faced, Toothless and asleep in a layer of fleece Your mother handed you to me. You are in this moment brand new, unsoiled and soft, little eggshell blue and pink of cheek. I think I was afraid of dropping you. We all were excited, there were many gifts for you and nanny found a reason to knit again. Fumbling with blankets, you are placed in my arms. I’m all at once amazed, how small and curled you are. Are you as content as I? It's something hard to find, I’m sure, Especially at this time, little parcel of peaches, passed around from veiny hands. And we've taken so many pictures, let’s hope it doesn’t waken you. Your scrunched eyes widen to round blue marbles, covered in a flutter of lashes, Held clumsily in my arms. You looked at me and gargle some notes from your new throat. Your mouth opens clean as a cut, How warm and heavy you are! Nothing is worth knowing yet, no knowledge of time and how quickly it will pass, Nor the faces you will pull to meet the faces that you meet, and you may never feel complete with the fact that your birth changed everything for me. You purse your lips at me and coo lightly; Grumpy baby. I rise with the task of nursing you along to the next pair of arms, Bundled in cloth, fussed upon. And under your mother’s anxious eye.
The Jumble 