© By Ruth Carr
Who is this urgent, longed-for creature
Tugging the milk from my body,
Who dreamed nine months in my inner sea
Tumbling, kicking, hiccupping
While cease-fires were declared
In the world that she will absorb
Like litmus paper?
Who can tell when the cord will be cut?
When recognition will blossom in a smile?
What the first new-coined words
Of a common tongue might be?
To gather a child up to your shoulder,
Cheek to your cheek,
Is to hazard the perilous gift of love
Into a no-man’s land.