The first thing the babe will see is herself.

The babe had been determined, 

as all babes were.

 

Her spit, liquid achromat.

Asphyxiated genomes under pillow.

Her cough, violet trauma.

Fungus had snowed on her purity at conception. 

These days,

molded genes have made her sick.

Mother’s fingers meet the forehead of her first child. Then cheeks. Then neck. 

Her touch altering the plump and plush skin of the pink body. 

The hardening creeps. Mirrorizes. Reflects.

 

Mother’s fingers return to the newly hardened alloy of her baby’s neck. Brittle. 

It shivers into cracks. 

The shavings, glass snow. Weather in the hospital.

Mother grabs the shards and pushes them into the baby’s mouth, watching herself on the tongue.

The last thing Mother will see is herself.

Residual crumbs seek passage back into her silvern limbs. They merge.

Mother loves her baby, 

but she cannot love her baby,

and the babe didn’t have the language to ask, what did your mother do to me?

 

Baby clutches Mother’s finger.

Glass on glass, wet mirrors. 

Corporeal funhouse, epigenetic crime.

Objects inside Baby are closer than they appear.

Mother is made of Baby, and Baby of her. 

When they look at each other, who do they blame?

The last thing Mother will ever see is herself.

Mother had been determined, 

as all mothers were.

Trinity Saxon