“About half of all humans ever born died before the age of five.” – John Green, Everything is Tuberculosis
we are small
likely to take a knee to the face
as the others rush to heaven
the after place
so much after, for us, and precious little before
precious little, even if dreaded,
if the pains that came signaled not a Christmas morning but dreaded knock
we were, briefly, the extra mouth
all of us exchange, and I could give others “suckling”
some can give “pulling”
some can give the walk or on occasion the run
we have little
we are overlooked
are little, have overlooked
the larger stories
of lighting smokes and bicycle control
of whipping oxen
of glugging water
we left before we were asked– anything–
the weariness of long work,
insomnia,
the loss of exchange when meeting another language, a deaf man, a lunatic
we know thresholds but not windows
chair legs but not tabletops
roots and grasses, but no branch
the exhale of being swaddled, usually,
the falls from which we bounded back.
Some have never teethed,
some never made words,
some never inhaled their own
some never were pulled up from a bed
some never had a good poop
some never tasted else but mother’s
some were, with shame, dripped water by thin mothers
some got a pox upon them
some were born with parts out of warranty
some hadn’t followed assembly instructions
some loved the womb but failed the air
some saw colors
some only light
some only dark
When you arrive to us
there is no anxiety:
we nap, making such
a field of non-flowered flowers
that others, the long-termers,
the overachievers,
are soothed as they look and look
Going On 