Perhaps her conception was on an upbeat.
Perhaps one song is about the christening gown
knit from a single strand; she seemed to like wearing it.
Maybe the long ahhhhh notes, repeated, rising at the end,
are dedicated to the giant plush cardinal, the favorite bunny to pat,
the fascinating daily items: toilet paper roll, whisk, playing card.
Perhaps she is sad about the sky. Or excited
about her new variations on a theme, the song
of the brimming blue-veined breast, how warm,
taut-looming, how right. She is years too young for
zip-a-dee-doo-dah, but includes that verve in ahhhhh,
a fermata of locked-in eye contact. Her high squeals,
learned somehow from infant dolphins, talk to the dogs
two blocks away, try to tune her radio to our frequency.
Maybe soon she’ll sing of why she smiled first when falling asleep,
and laughed first in her dreams, sing of the safety of thresholds
in the darkness behind her eyes, letting her bubble over. But for now
she sings of slucking, sleeping while sucking. She sings of the taste of toe.
And she sings to her hands, and how they are still hers
whenever she turns them over.