When you came into the world, someone cried
big, happy, grieving, squishy, angry tears. Maybe you
cried. Warm arms absorbed those bellyaches.
When your hands curled around each gentle finger,
your body held big, slimy, belching, cooing emotions.
When did the scale change? When your arms expanded
to build mud pies? Cradle laundry? Squeeze and pinch
every soft thing you ever contained? When you first floated
inside, someone wriggled from their denim. Tiptoed
to their sofa and let you rest with them. Palm over stomach
over water, generous enough to carry all forms. Grow,
they whispered and blessed each kick its own flood.
Julien Griswold’s work is published in Issue Seventy of The Racket Journal.