You are born with tears in your eyes
and screams in your throat;
air in your lungs the first time is a gasp of cold—
but then you are wrapped in blankets, held in arms,
called precious for the mere fact that
You are here.
You’ve opened your eyes.
For a few years you live with the belief
that people will come when you cry
to fix everything that is, or ever could be wrong
But one day they just stop coming.
One day what’s wrong can’t be fixed.