babyou

poetry is dead

for in death

there is poetry

*

i am asked

whether i think

poetry is worthwhile

by a man who implies

that the question is

and to whom i answer

with my palms open

sky lapping flesh

mouth hung like

a tree after an ice storm

heavy and forever

saying nothing

against the

silence of sun

reflecting in his eyes

which could make a

good poem

if only he’d look

*

i was born

only to birth

production in reproduction

by creating in you a baby

version of yourself

that you’ll keep and

read to and

ensure you don’t let down

despite the troubles and cries

and sore, scrambled knees

for who will pick it up

like you

who will worry about it

like you

who will like you

like you