PAUL, TO HIS BABY

Under the white hill of her
sleeping, you wait.
You, who are me.
You,
whom I do not know.
Invisibly
you took your spinach and bran,
your milk and eggs and apricots
from her body.  In darkness
you wait, curled elastically
to fit her inner contours, wait
and build, as clouds gather round
Mount Franklin, knowing the time
when they will rain.
You too will know the time for
swimming out of your dark pool
into an antiseptic room.
Light will crash into your eyes,
voices and metal clanging
pound your ears, harsh temperatures
assault your skin.  Then
I will take you, new as morning,
hold you against my chest.
And all the churning there,
all the stirrings that will
never find my tongue
I will press gently
into your body.

			Lucille Murphy