He wakes and his Cupid’s mouth
Is thrumming at my breast.
I lift him high with tired arms
And he thinks I shaped the sky
With these two hands. In simple
Motions I am a life source, in
Quiet rooms by lamplight I teach
Him what words are. I used to think
I had not done enough, was not full
Enough of something until my own son
Searched my face like starlight. In twelve
Hours I became a philosopher in a hospital gown.