Babybludgeonpoem

Most days, I wake up
and bludgeon a baby to death.

I can’t leave it to wail alone in the crib-junkpile
in the corner, where it is reborn every day without
memory – a small gift

for us both. I wake up in bed suffocated,
already wielding my twin greatclubs, and meet its
bleating swiftly. It’s an unfair fight you know,
me – a full-grown man – and it – a baby – and my
battle has only granted me more strength than I
deserve. I can know the deed is done when the
roar of the world is muffled, when I am swallowed by
the losing sea. I am grateful for this loss.

But somedays – on very rare days
– I am able to drop my clubs and
wrap my hands around it
embracing a heart so much smaller
than my own so close to my chest.

And the world
it becomes cacophony again, becomes
deliriously real and –
fuck

I remember how softly it coos,
and I weep.