Give melodies to everything you say,
new life
must be sung into this world.
Let your arms be a lush valley.
With syrupy stares
sway like a grove of maples in a gentle breeze.
Watch their eyes.
Whisper ‘open sesame’.
Keep watching.
Study the red river deltas on their eyelids;
and in your mind, follow these tiny rivulets
to their surging source.
Keep watching.
Blow gently
on the bouquet of dandelions
that is their face.
Stoke their downy hair
as if it were the ermine fringe
of a sovereign’s crown.
Smell them
like you would a new-blooming rose,
aware that thriving
comes with fertilising –
the scent of poo, itself
a miracle.
Be the librarian.
This soft-covered story
with blank-page eyes
shelved on your forearms
needs your shushing.
Quick, sharp shushes for boisterous visitors.
Soft, slow shushes for lulling and loving.
Let your sighs be fairy floss;
let your hums be jester plums.
Surrender your vocab
and fill your mouth with colourful marbles.
This warm body
in the corona of your love
carries heat passed on through generations;
it is the hot tip of an iceberg –
the cold bodies
of a myriad humans
the submerged mass
of traits and immunities and adaptations.
Hold this vital,
restless tip
carefully,
prayerfully,
it can burn through
flesh and future.