Pomp

for Oscar Christoph’s birth

Wax, little moon.

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Between toes and forehead,

your fullness remembers itself.

It’s still dark in your palms,

darker still in your mouth,

yet there beats and beats

a whole novel

world round

your rolling ears,

your found thumbs,

your warm red

firmament—

an outer-space sound,

a faint father voice,

perhaps a new sky,

an up and a down. But what

are up and down and out

to all your roundness?

Wax, little moon. Make strong

fists. Send your non-too-solid

glaucous splendor out

with the tide and light

your knowing mouth

gravely.

Airily.

Then loudly,

land and summon us.

*pomp—Shoshone: unborn child
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