The baby’s dragged the sheets to the kitchen
and now she’s stuffing them in the washer,
one hand lifting a wad of yellow cotton,
the other reaching down for more and more. Breathing heavy,
she’s feeding vast swaths by the armful,
bent halfway into the mouth of the machine,
a strip of skin exposed where her shirt’s ridden up,
an edge of diaper sticking out of her pants.
Who can watch a child and not feel fear
like static in the background or a tinnitus you try to ignore.
This morning, in the Times, I saw the galaxy LEDA 2046648—
each spiral arm distinct and bright against the dark ink. Light
from a billion years ago, just as the first
multicellular life emerged on Earth.
What are the not-quite-two years of this intent creature
in the sweep of time? Her quadriceps and scapula,
the alveoli of her lungs, twenty-seven bones of her hand
that evolved from the fin of an ancient fish.
And her scribbly hair sticking up from her first ponytail.
When she was in her mother’s body,
the California fires turned the air a smoky topaz
and the sun glowed orange on the kitchen wall.
Last month the floodwaters rose and seeped under the door.
Still, there must be time for this, to watch her—
hands deep into the doing, she’s wedded
to the things of this world.
When she stands, her sleeve slips down
and she pushes it up like any woman at work.