Baptism

— For Andrea Yates

When you were born,
I tore,
and the blood clung to your face —
a crimson halo
to illuminate your grace.

Every day
you vomit my milk.
It curdles in your belly.
Tiny orphan,
you were never meant
for me, such filth.

Still, when I touch you,
I smell on my hands,
that musk, my blood.
I taste it.
But I won’t cut you, child,
or tear you limb by limb by limb.

Not you, sweet bug,
motherless pet.
In the water now,
into the deep you go.
No blood. No blood.
See how I save you.

— Liz Kay