By Vivi Sojorhn

 

She was so delicate

In is hands

Her head just the size of his hand

No boys for him yet to play catch with

So he would have to throw balls

Underhand and be her protector until

A man came along. His hands shook

More than he had bargained for

To stay home in the kitchen warming

Formulas to keep her safe instead

Of the Republic and Democratic notions

Were nothing in the end

It was only her now and it was not

Easy to imagine himself that way

A little horrified if he were to be honest

With himself as he let her nestle in his lap.

Certainly, this child was less miserable than

Jungles and gunshot in the night.

The sounds of sucking down the bottle 

And her tiny fingers around her thumb

Might be her ticket to his heart healing.