When I was a baby,
the nurses warned my mother.
My bones formed too small-
they were afraid to touch me.
I was placed in an incubator;
as if a sheet glass, was enough
to say she needs more time.
I closed my eyes
to see people gathering.
My body glistened, shone under auburn heat.
They came there to worship me,
my tiny bones, a struggling miracle.
My mothers tears feed me morphine,
my fathers face shone red, a blood transplant.
As they slept, their shadows leapt forward, a last chance.