The babies hold themselves to my chest, a bouquet really, an arousal of new milk and pee. I think about them from time to time. I mean they’re holding so tightly to my chest, and I’ve already gotten rid of the sling. No chance of falling really. This is how I set it up, though, all of these babies. To deal with the anxiety of caring to deal with loss. The chance of the daisy or rose or lilac ripped away for my little ones they will be so many. The babies and their eyes. Always a stare but their mouths. The holding. The playground the slide the playing. The ball. The hit the knot in the one baby’s head and slight scrape. The other babies fall asleep but this one keeps awake. The babies and their brains. Their vision is developing. The tumbling and the brain against the skull. The babies in my sleep a dream a capsule a must. My sister’s baby on my chest. The babies are spiders. The babies devour. The corpse flower now to blossom the baby. The five-year-old baby at it again. The claw marks on my chest. The cradling and the nails and the napping and then again. Cut the tiniest one’s nails block of feet. The tallest baby resembles a statue. And I let him go. I do that and what a bee, a lark, see him in this area see them all. What a different kind of door to the self are these babies, carapaces of a self, a bug.
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