the captivity of babies…

owenholding2

Owen holds the newborn and the 2 year old

 

The Writer’s Almanac for Sunday, November 10, 201


On the Captivity of Babies 
by Margaret Hasse

Now that winter’s halfway here,


leaves swirl coldly
and babies aren’t seen much


except in the captivity of nurseries
s

lumbering with their hands
drawn into roses.

Babies are unto themselves,


a little sub-culture, none of whom suspects


how many other babies are being held


all over the world.

Babies escape slowly

from the little pens, the seatbelts,


the restraining arms.


It’s brilliant. Few notice


how tricky babies are.


On occasion, an aunt might fix
 a BB sharp eye on the little one,


and fire, “My how you’ve grown!”


The escaping baby feels very uncomfortable.

Babies enter the world impeccable and wise.


They leave their little prisons,


put nakedness in abeyance,


take on the clothes of the world,


spend a long time trying to locate


a perfect love


that resembles their first.
From time to time, they achieve glimpses.


As when an aging baby


late for a business appointment


sits dreamily in his car,


cigarette’s blue smoke


lingering in curlicues.


Before him a large leaf


shoved by the windshield wipers, is waving.


Or when a woman who has never run


to breathlessness, does so.


Amazed she does not burst,


she draws in large packages of air,


thinks of air as the new blood.
 
“On the Captivitiy of Babies” by Margaret Hasse from Stars Above, Stars Below © Nodin Press, 2018. Reprinted with permission

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