thoughts embrace an infant
like her formula stained blanket,
as she is swiftly carried through slender
compartments. Mother works assiduously
dreaming of a silent suicide. She coos
to the child playing with
scissors and staplers.
She won’t get hurt; it’s not the first time
baby hands conducted the ‘click click click’
of industrial fasteners into her carriage.
She’ll grow up proud –
knowing that when she asks mother
(if the sores gracing her lips are not too profound)
“Was I a good little girl?” she will hear
you still have all your fingers.”