You’re the Baby

by Gigi Marino

Pretend that you’re the baby,
and I’m the scary monster in the closet,
your atavistic nightmare,
hungry wolf or old hag,
toothy scholar with an empty plate
and a tarnished fork with twisted tines.
  
Begin the unraveling, and remember,
baby, that you’re the baby, imprint now
the color of the celestial ceiling,
Virgin Mary and a crown of thorns
transformed into stars, spiraling universes,
first footprint on the moon, billions
of galaxies and multi-versed satellites beamed
back to Earth by the big eye in the Sky.
  
Give me a minute, give me a lifetime,
make me laugh in my time, an old
comedian, Gracie Allen or Lucy or God,
who all knew how to tell a joke
or keep a secret in a ballerina jewel box,
sapphire and rhinestone, ruby and humor,
and oh, my mama’s diamond-dust
flaky pie crust that could dance with the best of us.
  
You’re the secret, you’re the charm
on the lost bracelet I loved like milkweed
that fed the beautiful butterflies of spring.
By proxy, amniotic understanding, mommy,
unlock the key to the universe, stardust,
the molecular us, pure milk, blue, now
   

A lipstick sealed letter
Left wet in the rain
sun dried and shriveled
smell of rust and perfume
faded ink and a blank page
crumbled in the hands of
the opener

The Letter

by Brandon S. Roy

Between Us

by Peter Cardamone

The Road to Undependent Motherhood

by Lara Dolphin

When you were a baby
before you could speak,
I read your innermost thoughts--
That certain squeal you gave
when you wanted a toy
just out of reach,
The way you turned your head
and raised one arm
when you were ready for sleep.
We needed no other language.
I knew your signs,
and you knew mine.
Today at six
you sit and wait
in the great, big dentist's chair.
Your first new tooth
has missed the root.
The old one will not come loose.
The dentist shows me x-rays
while I hold your brother on my lap
and your sister uses markers
to color a picture of captain plaque.
The dentist goes to numb your mouth
so that you will feel no pain.
Yet I cannot extract my thoughts from yours.
I feel powerless all the same.
Someday, maybe, when you've grown
into a man with a child of your own,
I will start my recovery,
you will find your own, true voice
and my heart will wiggle free.
    

Window
    
by Liz Hecht