Inertia

They put the bundle in the crook of my arm

and waited for me to make a face.

I looked at the clock.

The nurse had a pen in her pocket

that had leaked a blue stain on her hip.

The baby’s head was warm and damp.

I watched the soft spot throb—

a small, frantic hammer

under a skin thin as a grape.

I wondered if I could leave now.