|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
How I love to hold you in my arms, my little chromatin meatloaf, says elder to toddler, and the child begins to shake - trying to form words with a tongue and apparatus that can't do it yet; Baby
trying to express a great excitement at its rapidly changing brain that is teetering on the brink of realizing that MAYBE-
the lady who seems to pop in and out of existence always exists;
the room that seems to be destroyed and rebuilt nothing like it was before when the elevator wall splits down the middle and the two parts are sucked into that place we go when the eyes close;
unable to walk wanting to walk, knowing that it will be able to, later, aware of some intangible thing that is "between" now and later, an awareness that is incomplete like the hard things that it knows will be coming through its gums,
movement and space,
I cannot rise from the ground unless in the hands of this man who's always showing me the white inside his mouth, an awareness that until later can only be responded to by shaking.
