mama brings home the baby,
doesn’t sing any songs to it.
instead she is a lullaby of sighs,
eyes tinged with water
clear like diamonds.
she says the baby’s distorted,
leaves it on tables that
resemble surgery boards.
throws away organic milk and
picks up prescriptions instead,
gives away lotions for topical creams.
the baby smells like pain,
not honey-crackers and broth
and never cries at night.
when people call to ask how it is,
mama tells them about
it’s supple skin,
tells them that flowers are blooming
on every crevice of its body.
she tells them that
the flowers are beautiful,
even if they are weeds.