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The Cradle

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Juggling forth tiny fingers, its eyes the craters of undiscovered moons.
“Just like her mother, “ I whisper, hands of silk tightly held by my side.
Ambition awakes from much needed rest, the crib its refuge during infancy.
“Tiene tu naríz cariño,” her mother discreetly whispers to me, as if holding the biggest secret in the world.
I look at her, long strands of black hair, all conformed to a giant bun.
The same eyes that once held me speechless, that once swore my death, now sparkle in poignant joy.
I look into the eyes of my wife….

Plush whips of cotton enwrap my daughter; her cries shake the foundations of fatherhood I’ve just begun to lay.
The pink and white quilt ent ices me, its seam dusty but ridden with heavenly warmth.
My hands brush off each patch, each thread creates a sudden spark.
“What was that?, “ I say, unbeknownst of it all, but she smiles at the sudden reminder.
She directs my hands below her left breast, feeling each rapid surge her heart sends forth.
I feel the tender flesh pulsate across my oily hands, the once smooth skin now ridden with goosebumps.
“Part of me forged into you… That day, you attained fire.”
I marvel at my un-scorched hands, quickly turning them on each side, “Fire sparked from emotion…”

The first rays of sunlight timidly approach the room, between our lowered heads, straight to the child’s face.
Her hazel eyes expand, y como un lunar, their pupils contract to a single dot.
Her cheeks the lightest shade of brown man ever conceived, like caramel hills whose earth is laced with her mother’s milk.
My baby puts on a smile.

I clutch on the crib for support, my heartbeats stifled, all to hear a single utter.
“You ok amor, “ she whispers once more.
I confess I am selfish, for my heart roars with jubilation at her pull.
Just as how I did the first time we reunited, first witnessed in the most intimate chambers of my mind…
I grab her by the waist and kiss her.

I look in the future, without the oracle’s guidance.
I forge poetry with dreams to inspire me, when my heart grows cold from naked time.
I recall what unraveled last December, last night, 5 minutes ago, and weave it all.
For the quilt warms my heart…

I hold the hushed child, her fragile body’s only support my arms.
- In times of romantic manifest, of shattered promise, of suicidal pain -
I clutch onto the cradle, and am in awe of what we created.
I remember her last words, as she whispered good night, in the earliest dawn…
“I hold the most valuable thing possible to exist in the world.”




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