Babies in buckets, I would give them a penny
for every drop of blood that trickles
into the drain. An infant’s length is a wheelbarrow
standing on its tippy-toes to see into crawl spaces

and they barely squeeze between. Yesterday,
I touched inside the tawny dwellings of myself.  
I tell everyone that this is where the children grow.

Up and maturing like wine, like fine honey beads:
this is the foster home where they’re safe
not abused by bowels. I coil my intestines to
frail wrists, around the neck expanding
giraffe legs held straight through my esophagus. If

babies in buckets require kisses or cuddles,
these folds will mother them.

How the starlight will keep heat inside, I watch a
moon protracted at night and hold it to my
fingertips so the newborns can see
what eyes sacrifice for a ***-hole person & place.