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The Baby

what’ll it eat?  reindeer
lead you to sleepless summer nights,
the forest soon generating enough milk & meat
to begin breeding rich allergies
to hay & cities

& if the climate changes faster
than the sexual norms?
a coastline may drown while
prophylactic methods wash into the moon’s phases,
forcing families onto higher ground
littered with antlers & nanotubes,
a new lonely place created from
an incentive to reproduce not on paper (so
how old are these trees? these tweens
fresh from the nursery
growing taller & more or less punky?)

greenhouse gases are an experimental brew
scenting a teen’s breath on arrival home,
high on eco-slang, a virtual chase
staked out between a stump & a future family
made from who knows what
this life might be wanting?
fire? ice? or who can say, a sperm
en route to conjunction
with an ovum waiting for conjunction
with (snipped or tied, a
breed of isolates it was
a still-uninhabited landscape primeval
fresh out of isostatic depression
puked up like solid food

play in this sylvan, Pleistocene crib,
growling your semi-wild words,
a culture floating in petri dish waters,
a husband
& wife the living medium,
weather to trust & bask in,
a thin-soiled voice whispers lunglessly
‘come, break through
this crusted cervix overlain with moraine’

& build from these micro-paradises,
these lime-soiled outwashes
(first a bit of sloppy exploration,
growing up quickly into the gametes,
but could anything be remembered about an incubation period
in a Star-womb Playpen?)

some do some don’t
choose to experience
little bundles of joy,
ecstatic packets of photons,
before it’s wrapped up as a vasectomy
or the years slip into menopause,
by then, correction & reward pause where
‘the children look after themselves now,’
or was it a barren time,
like ice that came down from the mountains & everywhere?
when it was time to move on, ‘never again
to make love by these lakes & rivers’

‘grasslands & tree-islands changing into closed forest’
where a few microbands of people live,
what’s out there, is it any better? or
go find your family
or a shelter among an infinite number of leaves
or discarded tires,
a shanty, a shanti

scared of reproducing yourself?
but one child wants to put its arms around every other child alive
& that ever lived

& if there was a possible defect
(showing up like from another planet?)
a Big If would find itself in bed
to beat the odds of every statistical roll-in-the-hay:
as carefully, parentally, it’s rocked
into a most special niche,
a huge welcome into
a new dream-home furnished with heavens & hells,
set free from its womb,

as if the arms & legs of I & we
had been fetally contracted there,
now stretching out, expanding
as from a singularity

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