At Eight Pounds You Burst Out

rash splashed
across your face, knuckled fists

like walnuts, banging on a door.
Rich yeasts in your neck,

thrush fuzz on your tongue,
fontanel a pulse of American blood.

Your pink face is already furious,
a drill bit bearing down

on the light and the sound.
You are a limb-driven maniac.

They put you in my arms.
I sing a little church song I’d like to pass along.