Oxygen
by Molly McCully Brown
One woman brings her baby to work, walks with him between the aisles
of beds to be sure we are sleeping. She holds him close to her chest.
Sometimes, if the night is calm, she will reach down, touch my hand
as she passes, as if she has forgotten she does not believe I can sense it,
forgotten I was never anyone’s child.
Wrist: small flawless place on my body;
second home of my heartbeat.
Infant: planet of heat; flawless animal;
what I was meant to become.
Air: thing that changes temperature,
tells you when another body is near.
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