The shirt I wore was blue; and when you were born
your skin was blue and your skull was huge.
And though you could do little else
other than cry at the unfairness of being born,
somehow you clung to me
in my wrinkled blue shirt
while the nurses tried desperately
to whisk you away
to some holding tank/nursery
on another floor of the hospital
where all the newborns were kept away
from the exhaustion and apathy of parents
who chose their children’s names
out of one of those books that are always
in the bargain book bins because
the only time a name is important
is when someone gives it to you because
they think – in spite of everything –
that picking just the right name
will somehow mark their spawn
for greatness in a world weighed down
beyond the breaking point with mediocrity.
I held you and you held my finger.
And the only name
that came to mind was “Mine.”
And in my youth and my uncertainty
I prayed to a god I no longer believed in
that it would be enough and that
in this world, for which I have little love,
you would be safe: because
though I do not love the world
I love it more
that you are in it.
But fathers are foolish. And your skin
turned pink and your head seemed
too big for your body because it housed
these two big blue eyes
that never seemed to blink:
though the nurses were, on the day you were born
jealous of your eyelashes.
The first five months of your life I was convinced
your hair would never grow—that you’d be
that bald blue-eyed girl staring through the world
and into the souls of people the way
other people’s kids stared at television screens.
When you were three years old I held you all night
when you ran a fever. My eyes were red;
The couch was green; your blanket was blue. And I remembered
as I held my hand to your heart – to make sure
you were breathing – that moment when you took my finger
the way strong men shake hands and I prayed
that you would walk through the world
just like that. When you started talking,
I didn’t want you to stop – though after a while,
I started hoping you would learn
the comfort that comes with silence.
But you are not a silent child.
You are not me – though I sense
that you have your own quietude
to retreat to and it gives me hope
that the landscapes of your imagination
are prettier than mine – because that means
the world you live in
will be prettier than mine
and that maybe, if I’m lucky,
yours will grow so large
that it will spill over
and all the ugliness I have seen
will be washed away
under a tide of blue water
the exact shade of your giant eyes.
