For Logan, from your aunt on the occasion of your birth

The midwife took a photo
of your cord
where it hung,
attached at the furthest
edge by
a scant few

precious vessels.
Strands of life,
they tell your story:
a tale of enough,
a braided rope of
love, joy, and plenty

far right of reason,
and smack in the middle
of God's good grace.

Bless you, boy!

Be graced, good son,
to cast your steadfast line
to sea, and catch
all those who need a love
that won't let go,
and know:

Your mother's thread,
the Father's hand,
the Spirit's breath
will hold you still.

all downhill from there

They arrived by
leaving
the only home
they knew, a dark
paradise
without hunger,
without want,
without fear.
This very space
not only shrank but
squeezed,
pressed,
expelled,
ejected them
through a bath
of blood and water,
into a world of
harsh light,
brutal noise,
haunting hunger,
endless need.
Years later we
will fret over
a swat on the rear,
a scraped knee
the wrong soccer coach.
As if we had some
power to shield,
as if the bubble
ever stays intact,
as if the trauma
doesn't start with birth.