I first saw you bound up like a miniature mummy
basking under the gaze of your mother, your eyes
screwed shut, lips slightly pursed.
Your ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes
softly kneading the air, dreaming.
I was an outsider here, not part of the holy trinity,
a family formed from nine nurturing months.
It shocked me, that burning look from parent to child,
a look of tender love and fierce, savage protection.
Is this how my mother looked at me? Still looks at me?
As a thing of beauty even with the scars of mistakes,
the flaws and blemishes of a life truly lived.
Poet's Corner 
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