Needle between heroic hands of a nurse
footballing a squirming, mewling infant,
hands cupping shoulders, bottom,
deaf to cries, hands steadier than nerves,
I slip into the heated millimeter gap,
delicately curving chain of spine
beneath translucent skin in a champagne tap.
The only thing done in my life
with more reverence:
Careful of stuck door, breath-held,
I lift heavy stacks of mother’s
precious china, too heavy for an eight year old.
I polish, teeth-clenched against grind
of fine-boned plates delicately stacked,
rounded-arms of teacup-soldiers marching,
dusting monthly for years, wondering how
could they possibly
trust me
with this?