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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