For Connor James Nye, 3 months old
You smile at everyone. When lifted, toted,
you hold onto shoulder or sleeve,
gazing curiously, each room or face.
Irish sheep, stuffed puppy, your daddy’s clown.
Dwelling in a tender current of care,
you know nothing of cruelties people do
to one another.
You did not see the intricate avenues of Aleppo.
Tiled ceilings, arching rooms. The villages of Palestine
could still be neatly terraced in your brain.
When you smile, we might all be wishing each other well.
When you startle at a loud sound,
await the power of softness
to settle you down. There is no other power in your world.
Hunger, interest, kicking, joy. Carry me there.
If your eyes fall heavily closed, sweet rescue
in the dozing. What we might remember
if we tried much harder.
In your dream no one is a refugee.
Everyone has clean sheets.