scrape a baby’s white tongueand if chunks crumble off, it’s milk.if the tongue bleeds, it’s thrush.
let the baby thrash, looking for food.if I find a wellspring, let me drink.this is called responsive parenting.
don’t rush to console me—let the babycry. this is sleep training.let me palm the dark edges of myown vision when the light goes out,let me taste what grows in my mouth.
follow the little spine to where it endsin a feathered tail whipping in a bone strawinnervating my wrists. I can tell myself
reach for this, or grab that and it is done.I smell food I drink, my thrum atired anthem. I cannot tell from hereif my tongue is overgrownor simply overfed.
the room is full of shuddering.milk tongue, milk tongue, your song’sgetting sour. I haven’t slept wellsince I was born.
as…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2019