A baby was born and born on fire.
They said, "Here is your burning baby.
Here is your infant in flames."
They dropped it into its mother's arms
Like a crying comet without a name.
"Shhh," mama crooned,
Her arms gone to cinders
Right down to the bone.
"Leave us, you assholes," she said to the doctors.
"Leave us to smolder.
Leave us alone."
The child was a girl, of course.
A little star,
And though to cradle her was to roast on a spit,
The mother held her,
And damn any do-gooder,
To hell with any child welfare fuck
Who tried to interfere.
There are kinds of love.
In time, the mother was nothing but ash,
But by then the girl was grown and rose
Five hundred feet into the sky
Like a mushroom cloud sharp
And bright enough to blind.
Look at the doctors, how they fumble;
The ministers, too, with their useless bibles.
Now comes the day for an infant in flames,
A baby born and born on fire.
"Look," says the new mother,
"How red-orange limns
My doubled and darling