Today's poem is by Karen Skolfield

Where Babies Come From

I thought they were handing me a baby,
but it's a star in my arms, a very small one,
just born. Whoever said they twinkle has never
held one. It's blue and not very warm,
and though I don't know a thing about stars,
I start to worry. I give a tickle, blow on it,
sing a little song, all my tricks. The star
perks up, then settles into me, like it belongs.
Everyone else at the party is clustered
by the hors d'oeuvres. "Hey," I say. "Hey.
I should probably give this nice star back."
Blank looks. "I mean, it's not my star.
It doesn't even look like me." But it sort of does,
right around the edges. So I try again.
"Okay, it does sort of look like me, in the way
that everything in the universe resembles
everything else, in that interconnected way,
you know, a breeze starts in the Horsehead
Nebula and we feel it in Bear's Paw Galaxy.
Or a butterfly is trampled by a horse and . .. "
I can't remember what's supposed to happen
with the butterfly, but I know it was profound.
They've turned back to the food, what's left
of the warm brie. These are not the people
you want between you and the lifeboats.
A woman approaches. "Cute baby," she says.
She keeps her hands behind her back.
It's instinct, you know. If something's held out,
you can't help but take it in your arms.

Copyright © 2015 Karen Skolfield All rights reserved
from Frost in the Low Areas
Zone 3 Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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