At Eight Pounds You Burst Out

A new poem

by Kirsten Andersen
At eight pounds you burst out
with a trumpet mouth,

rash splashed
across your face, knuckled fists

like walnuts, banging on a door.
Rich yeasts in your neck,

thrush fuzz on your tongue,
fontanel a pulse of American blood.

Your pink face is already furious,
a drill bit bearing down

on the light and the sound.
You are a limb-driven maniac.

They put you in my arms.
I sing a little church song I’d like to pass along.

Kirsten Andersen’s poems have appeared in Tin House, Alaska Quarterly Review, Court Green, and elsewhere. A recent finalist for the National Poetry Series, she lives in Providence, Rhode Island.

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