Poem of the Week #150

Baby Poets

We lie side by side
on the fleece blanket,
two kindred souls
finding ourselves in bodies
like pink raisins.
We cannot locomote.
Our mother comes round
to diaper, feed, and hover.
She is always in motion
like wind or ocean, a force
with which to be reckoned.
Our father is more
like a very large rock
or a door. He is loud
to the touch, an island
of stubble and such.
I burble, you burp.
Between us, there are
hiccups and crying.
You push your fist
into my rib cage. My toe
goes into your mouth.
When I look in your eye,
it is clear we are brothers.
You make me laugh
by doing Jimmy Durante
and I astound you
with my daily ruminations
on the origin of the soul.
We spend hours at a time
in awe of the light that streams
through our bedroom window.
You blink twice, I once.
Only we know what that means.
As poets go, we’ve got it wired.
We cannot speak—yet.
Nor can we write. Not because
we cannot write, but because
they have not thought to give us
pen and paper.

Lisa Vihos