I Don’t Want To Hold Your Baby

She is a slinky in the crook of my arm, all potential, waiting to be caught or released at a tread’s whim. I’m still stepping out of my shoes at the door when you thrust her into my chest, shimmy your shoulders of their stiffness, and walk toward the kitchen. You’re ranting about the cashier that called her your gorgeous son—the reason for the new pink ribbon clinging to her three whispers of hair.

“Isn’t she perfect?”

In the kitchen, I watch as you scrub a pot with two kinds of sponges, while rocking her stiffly with mannequin arms. How I wish that I loved her already.