[an error occurred while processing this directive]KRISTEN GALLAGHER
POEMS FOR BEGINNERS
You know, how you can have one baby that cries all the time and one baby that never cries. Perhaps the baby that never cries is crying all the time, in secrecy. Maybe the baby that never cries is crying everywhere. Under the arch, where if one is not sure of oneself, self-incineration takes place. Premature birth turned to pits. Bits of bone burned but where else would the detection of elsewhere? How does that one baby, who sits in the corner, never self-aggrandizing, not appear? That appearance may be the home of forgery, the drama of dirty diapers. As when one baby made an interesting sound and now all the babies are doing it. Was there ever a silent baby who did not speak? Was there ever a baby who truly kept to itself? Was there ever a baby who did not emote just to get what it wanted? In the anxiety of ventriloquism, must all babies share? Maybe the secrecy baby is just growing up to the tune of broken cups, still able to hold. Maybe that baby is holding a volcano in its little baby unknown cup. Maybe that baby will be gone before leaving ever reaches the others.