Cynthia's Combustion

Yellow. Her downy quilt the crescent moon hanging
onto droops beneath my eyes, the slivers I must keep
open. My head is a muffle of gray matter filled with
endless thoughts of nothing but this newborn’s grunts
and jerks; her slow-crank build up and disconcerted
gurgles urging for release of gas, her right arm punch
of air and left leg kick a squirm releasing her from
swaddled back to frailty, her twisted face finally
breaking free, the noxious explosion a shooting star.

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