Unzip my belly-scar—cesarean a litter of pugs.
Cosset the smallest: she’s ours—hands quake
on the drive home while you papercut me
with names. We lego her crib out of newspaper
& shoeboxes, old washcloths—kinder than metal
or wooden bars. When it storms, you blanket-
swaddle her to your chest—our little girl. I iron
my lips together, think about parallelism: teething
rings & sink-baths, sewing stuffed animals
back together. We photoalbum my sonograms,
bury them between fabric softener & bleach. You buy
tennis balls instead of picture books. I pluck
feathers out of pillows on your side of the bed.