Baby’s Breath

You Rise,
hours before
the Sun,

Desperate to spend Them
Imploring
The Being that
Lit your Being,

to Rescue You
from The Black Hole
of Self-Accusing Blame
for The Shame

of Your Deficient Performance,
Playing Your Part
in this Dramacomedy
You Begged
to be Cast In.

Hours later,
still Gut-Wrenched
with the
Nausea of Narcissus,

Still Begging
The Light
for Relief,

You are Self
Medicating with
Molasses Cookie and
Coffee Shop Caffeine,

When,
two Tables away,
a Smiling Mother
Holds Her Recently
Arrived Infant
on Dada’s Shoulders,

while The Babe
weaves Fingers
through His Hair,
and leans forward
to Blow Smooches
between Her Fingers.

Your Eyes Swim,
and Every Passerby
has Divine Shine.

Your Shame Is
No Match for
The Flame of
Adoration.