Beware of babies, they said.
With the babies, come the mamas.
With the babies, come the fear.
Even if they glide toward you when they see you,
Stop, then sit, at your feet,
Gently cock their head to the left,
Straighten their ears,
Look you in the eye;
Even if then they cuddle up beside you,
Tufts of brown fur teasing your skin,
Stroke your leg with a paw,
Like an artist’s hand against clay,
Feeling its way across the curves and bumps,
The sockets and lines,
the pores and the hairs,
Inching slowly,
And feeling,
Feeling,
As if asking the medium to tell the hand where to press,
What to pull, how much pressure, where to stay;
Even when they nestle their head in the crook of your knee,
And you can feel their breath, warm and heavy—
but it’s no bother,
but it’s just enough to melt the wall
that might have been standing between you two before—
When their lips are gently pursed, mouth gently open:
An oven, ready to fire whatever the clay was meant to become.
Even when you think: how sweet.
Beware of babies.
The mamas gave them teeth,
Housed inside open mouths,
Beared, then bearing down,
Sharpened. Tried.
And proven.
Proven.
Proven.
Proving.
The mamas gave them claws on the paws that stroke,
Then tickle;
That stick and dig,
Digging in skin- and spirit-deep.
And if you care to stroke them back,
To feel once with your hands,
To look a little left, or down,
As they desperately try to keep your gaze,
You’ll find the fur is matted in patches
Too many to count,
And there are sores,
And wounds,
And evidence.
Beware of babies.
Hey, baby. Baby.
Right here, baby. If you just look — and smile —
Baby, come here.
Beware.
Because with the babies, come the mamas:
The thoughts And intentions
The intentions
And the goals
That bore that baby
Long before you came into view.