Youth was spent in animal shelters,
Walking the gray halls,
Watching all the dogs
Who could not be taken home and
Praying that favorites would not die.
Now, I am older, twenty-five, clock tick-tocking inside
For something else I want to take home,
Call my own, even knowing the impossibility
Of its place in life awake
In this world
With its pre-requisites for success.
Usually hospitals are places no one wants
To go. Now I want nothing more.
I want to go to the maternity ward and
Watch all the new born babies.
The only problem is the lady
When you first walk in–guardian
Of all, she gives the visitors their passes.
She sits behind the desk grinning, all smiles, when
She asks How may I help you because
Most of the world would rather be some place else,
Some place that doesn’t smell like Death’s perfume
Wafting through the air, some place
Not so cold.
She waits for an answer of a sick aunt or friend
In mid-labor and gets neither. Instead
She is told of a scientist conducting research
Of the soul–
I want to see just how much
I can make myself cry
Watching a mother breastfeed her child or
Crumple watching a man become a flower,
Angles soft, eyes in love with tiny arms, ears, toes.
I want to watch the littlest babies
Who refused to go back into the light.
I want to pray the machines away, be one more voice
Begging for color to find nearly translucent skin and
Cheer on all the chests rising in defiance
Of that world that calls them back.
I want to watch miracles.