Delivered

A bawling on my doorstep
and there lies a baby, swaddled
and bound, gimlet-eyes drilling
my core. Not mine, this

dangerous pack; a changeling.
But I will unwrap him, embrace
this fault in delivery.
I am dry of milk, but blood,

mine, courses for us both.
I will wash my dirty hands.
And I will give him a white stone,
and on the stone a new name written

which no one knows but he
who receives it. His cry
with its frequencies,
I own; I am tuned to the cord.


2.17 Revelations . . .and I will give him a white stone, and on the stone a new name written which no one knows but he who receives it.)