I dream of taking the baby out of the house.
Waking up, she registers
the edges of her crib
and the mobile above.
I microwave a white bowl of water.
She begins slowly to move
and I reach in to lift her.
I prepare her, changing her,
holding her warm
clean flesh in place,
extending a free hand
for a flat, tiny hat,
unrolling a sock
onto each smooth foot.
I struggle for a while
to arrange her limbs
in the tangled cloth carrier.
She squirms on me in the mirror.
As her mini clothes spin
hot in the back room,
I pull the gate closed,
lifting it slightly
so the square hole
lines up and locks.
I share her with the block.
Metal chains and blue leaves
painted over a soaked couch in the street.
Their fat vibrant edges
are garish and new,
but what could be louder than her,
alive like a dog.
Heavy as a bag of food.
Her feet hang, her warm eyes
roll back. She bites my finger
with a soft, wet mouth.
Passing clean cars and thin trees,
their smooth bark
painted white at the base,
taking in the hard, layered leaves
of each potted succulent,
I consider using this freedom
to call someone familiar
as the baby looks up at me
and fixes her eyes there,
her weight buckled to mine,
her sock falling off.
I'm starting to get to know her.
She has a center.
I fear tripping over a branch
or discarded plank,
and crushing her beneath me.
Wrong light, like bits of concrete,
where stars should be.