My bees nest baby, I would stretch
the loneliest days just to
sketch you into being,
drawing flesh rolling over your
tickling bones, those seashell nails
on your tracing paper skin.
I would sponge you into my lungs
until they belted out your being,
until they sang the polyphony
of your tiny cupid’s kiss
and the bluebird’s breath of
your nose between your cheeks.
I would shade you with ginger-licked
freckles like mummy and I would
carve those five letters onto my chest
because, my love, there will be you
beating heat into these arms,
gifting me the sweet-laced sting of mothering.
If I could want you into being I would.
My child, you are made of thorns
and I will build my heart into your cradle.