A babe in the hand, all belly, eyes, beak,
scooped from a waxwing’s nest by my mother
to show me the wonder of beginning:

scant down and gauze skin over bones
like rice grains, and my hand trembling
beneath its trembling body—

how to tend such a fragile thing?
I tipped it back into my mother’s palm and ran
to the swing-set, unable to conceive

you quickening, your kicks slight as the lift of a bird’s wings,
or nights smothering your squawks with my breast
to allow your father a few hours’ sleep,
 
no one to take you as my hands began shaking.