I cannot help but feel like Adam,
as I look into your bright blue eyes
and name each shape, as for the first time:
Round, square, triangle.
You stare, watching my mouth
shape awkward letters,
great blue orbs blinking.
But then my job gets better,
better than the first work of mankind,
because your tiny lips open
and mimic my sounds, my words.
No zebra ever answered back.
I cannot help but feel like a judge,
as I look at your face
and am torn between sorrow
and knowing what is best.
So I take away, or give.
Your blue eyes brim over with tears,
your little hands form a little fist;
a sure descendant of Adam.
I cannot help but feel like a mother,
as I sit in the rocking chair and rock,
rock, rock, steadily, evenly,
trying not to break the calm trance
as your eyelids grow heavy.
Those blue eyes stare at me,
the blinks grow longer.
You shake your head,
rebelling against the swiftly falling tide
of sleep. Your short, dark hair curls,
the sweat of a sleeping baby…
the seconds stopped as I sang
that lullaby and laid you to rest.
You are not mine, but I love you.