Robert
James Berry
Newborn
Still bloody
Purple and crying
With pudgy fingers
Thinning hair
Our son is
A creased old man
A bawling sage
in woollen blankets
It is my
savage superstition to pray
and give thanks
Now that
they have
mopped shined you
made of you a serene swaddled infant
You are absolutely
still
A mystic with no name
With sleep
You shall grow young
in this house
Strong-lunged
Round as the moon
The
2River View, 3_3 (Spring 1999)
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