Thursday, January 01, 2009

Baby Overboard

Newark Airport, Starbucks, a double latte, grande, something with whip.
The people line on their way somewhere
A long line, rows and rows of tables.
I-pods and cell phones.

There is a baby in a high stroller seat
Maybe 14 months old.
She sits like a queen, sees her world from on high.
Pink pajamas, golden hair.
She stands, unsteady, tumbles out,
and hits her head on the hard concrete floor.

There is crying, of course.
Shredded shrieks.
No one looks.

The father, waiting for his coffee,
does not speak the responsive language of empathy,
leaves her on the ground as if she is another�s child.

I am out of my seat, I'll take her,
reaching from my place many paces away.
I am too far to get to her though
and I am a coward too.

She is not mine.
I sit down, undone,
searching the family dynamic
in a panic. Do something!

Eventual even casual, a world of time later for a baby
the father picks up his daughter like a wadded up nothing
hoists her by a tiny bird wing arm,
tosses her back into the stroller with the loose, too high seat.

Unstable, the whole thing

As the little one continues her wounded cries
her pajama�d brother looks on, unsure.

Where is the mother?
I spot her there, placid, dare I say serene,
behind the bulk of her husband,
as if her child was never been part of her reality.

She waits for her coffee too.

And still, the cries carve away the blues audio track,
there is more anguish than I can bear,
I am crying from where I sit,
unable to do anything but be with her pain, my pain, our pain,
all of it is unexpressed but I can taste in the salt of my own tears.

The little one makes the words �ow, ow, ow-ey.�
Are they her first words?
Will they be her last?

Right by me, they pass, the baby whimpering now.
My eyes are a worried mother hen,
moving over her head, her neck, her back.
Is her body all right? Sprain? Concussion? Some blood vessel burst?

They are both so precise, measuring out their cream and sugar,
The mother still behind the father, two sugars, one dollop of the cream.

The baby, somewhat recovered, begins to move around.
The father warns her how it will happen again,
if she does not stay still this time.

The little boy, the brother, looks my way
my naked pain rolling down my face
we hold eyes for longer than usual,
he almost looks away.
But he does not.
He holds steady on me,
a stranger who sees him, his sister, his story, his fate.
We are one.

I want to invite him into my careful mother's embrace.
I have lots of room here,
He almost comes�breaks free to be with me
or is it me who breaks free to be with him?

And then he blinks and they are gone,
baby tettering on top of the stack, unsteady
they are all swallowed by the crowds
on their way to catch their flight.

*composition in progress

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