Morning

by Terence Culleton

Among such scattered hardware,
rattles, rocker, letter blocks, bassinette.
the baby’s sleeping stomach down,
legs splayed, arms crooked

at the elbows, reminding you
of a frog passing through shallows.
You’ve thought that jutting upper lip
your father’s, the pushed-in chin

Churchhill’s. All gums, the mouth,
like a fish’s, the just-right structure
for sucking. Nostrils, ears, cranium,
all’s functional perfection, thrown

not too long ago from the womb
ferociously to live—even at 2 a.m.
last night, no regard for your steady
cooing, crooning, lullabying, sing-

songing out of a moon-kissed flower
straight to his screaming self, which
kept on screaming, felt just the thing
it had to feel, as if on fire, the

scorching hunger, uncognizant
that moment of any other moments
that had been or would be until the
breast came and that was what he felt.