Her First Week

She was so small I would scan the crib a half-second to find her, face-down in a corner, limp as something gently flung down, or fallen from some sky an inch above the mattress. I would tuck her arm along her side and slowly turn her over. She would tumble over part by part, like a load of damp laundry, in the dryer, Id slip a hand in, under her neck, slide the other under her back, and evenly lift her up. Her little bottom sat in my palm, her chest contained the puckered, moire sacs, and her neck - I was afraid of her neck, once I almost thought I heard it quietly snap, I looked at her and she swivelled her slate eyes and looked at me. It was in my care, the creature of her spine, like the first chordate, as if the history of the vertebrate had been placed in my hands. Every time I checked, she was still with us - someday, there would be a human race. I could not see it in her eyes, but when I fed her, gathered her like a loose bouquet to my side and offered the breast, greyish-white, and struck with minuscule scars like creeks in sunlight, I felt she was serious, I believed she was willing to stay.